


willow cabin

by ElbridgeGerry



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gender Angst, I wonder why writing about Éowyn might be so appealing in year ten of lockdown!, Lots of Sex, everybody's a little bit gay sometimes, no beta we die like Boromir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElbridgeGerry/pseuds/ElbridgeGerry
Summary: She did what heroes do after their work is accomplished; she lived.Éowyn takes up one last mission before her wedding — but the fall of the Enemy did not end all strife in the lands of Men.
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

The map stretches out for several feet in front of them, the polished stones representing bandit attacks scattered along the Eastfold, abutting the Gondorian fiefdom of Anórien. Their messenger has not yet returned from Minas Tirith, but all present in the room know that they will likely be adding stones to Anórien before long.

“Your Steward won’t like it,” Éomer says, fingering his beard. 

“Does the King of Rohan defer to a mere steward in his affairs of state?” Éowyn challenges, pressing her knuckles into the tabletop as she leans forward to mark in more detail in Ithilien. 

“He is a prince too now, which outranks you last I checked,” Éomer smiles, as do several of the other men in the room. Éowyn does not. She is happy that Éomer and Faramir are friends, but not when they gang up on her — even if it’s just the spectre of Faramir that Éomer is puppetting here. 

“Fifteen men. I take Elfhelm and a messenger with me, and we’ll return before the month is out.”

Éomer crosses his arms, looks to his Marshal — who nods — and then uncrosses his arms to lean across the map in a mirror image of his sister. He traces a line from just south of the Sarn Gebir to the southernmost point of the Mering Stream, Éowyn follows it with her reed pen. 

“Fine. Travel light and start in the north.” He draws himself up to look his sister in the eyes. “And should the need arise to send a messenger to Minas Tirith, _you_ go. You may not like them but they’ll be _your_ people soon, and I wont condone subjecting Elfhelm to them.” 

Éowyn nods tightly, her smile well hidden. This is not her first victory.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

They follow the Snowbourn for two days until it drains into the Entwash, and all the while Éowyn is overcome with grief at the scars that still mar the lands of Rohan. It will take many years to replace what has been lost, and she will be long gone before the healing even begins, a fact which brings with it its own kind of grief. She tries not to dwell on it too much; Ithilien will be good for her too, and she will get to live out her days with Faramir. There are few things she could want more than that. 

The detachment she takes with her is good. Besides her and Elfhelm, it’s all men who fought at both Pelennor Fields and the Black Gate, they are men who have learned that there is sometimes value to sentimentality, who don’t think less of her for stopping in on homesteads they pass to greet the occupants and record what aid they need. 

At a push, they could have made the journey to the Entwash in fifteen hours instead of the twenty it takes them, but Éowyn is purposefully slower: this will likely be her last time out in the wild before her wedding, and she wants to make the most of it. She loves Faramir more than life itself, but she has no love for Gondor and its customs, and she has no interest in being bound by them before she has to be. 

The crossing of the Entwash into the Eastemnet is in dire need of repair, and she marks it down in the already-hefty letter her messenger will take back to Éomer when they reach the Sarn Gebir. Elfhelm tells her she is being too indulgent of the problems out here, that life has always been austere in the plains, but she would rather give Éomer too much to do than too little. Anyway, the age of Men has begun, they might as well start it right. 

They make camp at Amon Hen on the fourth night, and Éowyn stays her messenger. Though she is already struggling for space in her letter, she does not want to find anything tomorrow that requires urgent attention without the aid of her messenger. By the time she has explained her change in course to him, her only archer, Folcred, has stoked a fire and begun cooking a stew. She looks at the thick brown liquid, remembers the pastries she’d had on her last morning in Minas Tirith, and thinks that, perhaps, not everything is worse in Gondor. 

“Big Orc territory this,” Hulac says, using a stick to push dry leaves into the fire. 

“The ring-bearers passed through here once,” Éowyn says wistfully, gazing up at the ruined Seat of Seeing as it falls into darkness. It feels as though the old ruin is staring back at her. She’s just feeling the weight of history, she supposes.

“The ring-bearers?” One of the younger men — Cadda — asks. Éowyn has forgotten that not all yet know the true story of how the Enemy was defeated. 

“The Fellowship of the Ring,” Elfhelm supplies. “Four halflings, an elf, a dwarf, King Elessar of Gondor, and his Lord Steward.” She turns back to the fire, unsheathing the dagger she keeps secured in her breeches. The blade is clean, sharp too, and she reflects the firelight off of it and onto the toe of her riding boots. Faramir had given it to her the week he’d arrived for her uncle’s funeral, and had done exactly the same gesture to show off the purity of the metal. She smiles. Small pleasures, small distractions. 

They eat, and Éowyn talks little, instead listening to her men shoot the shit as if she weren’t there at all. She’s come to not just respect but actually _like_ her detachment. They’re not impressed with her for being the sister of the King, nor are they offended by her being a woman, they respect her for being the wraithslayer, they rib her for being betrothed to a poncey Gondorian, but mostly they carry on as normal around her, and that’s all she’s ever asked for. 

At first, they had flinched when they sworn around her, or made a crude joke, but after the first night, when she and Elfhelm had passed his pipe back and forth between them, trying to outdo one another on filthy drinking songs, they had all softened their approach and gone back to normal banter. 

Tonight, it involves Baldwine, who is just months younger than Éowyn, recounting his failed attempts to bed a local weaver. At first, Éowyn bristles at the conversation, but when she hears about their joint attempt to hide in the last stall of a stables, Éowyn laughs, realising that the weaver herself had actually been the instigator in most of his stories. Baldwine describes one incident where, late at night and in the pouring rain, they had both snuck out to the barn store behind the Éoherë barracks, where they had successfully stripped each other down to their small clothes in time for a night guard to stumble upon them and evict them.

Éowyn stares out into the dark wood surrounding them, and wonders what it would be like if she and Faramir could be free to have such dalliances. She imagines what he might look like, soaked through from the heavy rains, his dark hair slicked back from his face, his surcoat and tunic clinging to him in all the right places, showing off his strong arms. He would seek her out, and his tongue would be warm in her mouth, contrasting wildly to the cold around them. He would grab the undersides of her thighs and hoist her up, so that she could wrap her legs around his lean waist, and then he would carry her to the very last stall of the royal stables. 

He would press her into the hay stacks there, and her hair would catch in the loose straw, but she wouldn’t care because it would mean that she was with him. Then he would kiss down her cheek, her jaw, the column of her throat, the tops of her breasts exposed above the neckline of her dress. And he would splay just one of his large hands across her stomach, pressing her into the hay as the other hand dragged the skirts of her dress up, up, up, and he would fall to his knees before her, as if in prayer or deference, and he would nudge her knees apart, and she would feel his hot breath on the inside of her thighs and — 

The first scout patrol returns, looking worse for wear but ultimately peaceable, their horses whinnying and tossing their heads happily as they dismount. 

Éowyn takes a deep breath of chilly evening air, smooths her sweaty palms down the front of her breeches, and tries to focus on the fireside conversation again. She’ll take the next half hour to relax, then she and Elfhelm will unfurl their map and plot out their path for tomorrow. They’re technically in Gondor, yes, but the eastern banks of the Anduin have long been patrolled by the Rohirrim, and she can’t imagine that either Aragorn or Faramir will be offended by her momentary incursion into their traditional territory, especially if it _is_ to wrangle bandits. 

She says as much to Elfhelm, who points out that, until they get south of the Falls of Rauros, they will be doing Gondor’s business for them. But neither of them are more concerned with litigating every foot of the border between the two kingdoms than they are with clearing out the bandit menace, so they plot a southerly route for tomorrow that is agnostic towards the intricacies of the border around the river’s edge, and instead encompasses as many of the reported bandit attacks as they can fit in a day’s ride. 

By the time they bed down, she’s too tired to resume her thoughts of Faramir, so she stows his dagger under the cloak that serves as her pillow, and falls right to sleep. 

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

She takes the first scouting mission of the next morning, eating her breakfast in the early morning quiet accompanied by nothing other than the sound of leaves rustling in the trees. She leaves Windfola tethered to a stake, choosing to take her patrol on foot, but not before she feeds Windfola a crab apple she’d picked off the ground in the Westemnet. When she’s sure the horse is content, she strikes out into the forest. 

The Rohirrim are not, by nature, a quiet fighting force. They have no equivalent to the Rangers of Ithilien or the Rangers of the North, but scouting is a universal necessity, so while they may not be able to disappear like the Rangers, they have adapted in other ways. Éowyn has learned to watch for native animal-life, to see the directions they pass through the line, to observe what areas they avoid, and how fast they move. She has learned to watch for the birds in the trees, and how they sing, and where they nest. 

Nothing moves in the woods here except for her. There are no morning songbirds, no fleeing hares or watchful foxes. It is eerily quiet, as if it’s a forest of the undead. She walks for nigh on an hour without coming across so much as a squirrel, and decides that though no news is unsettling, at least in this instance no news is good news, and returns to camp. 

The men are awake and moving around by the time she returns, and Folcred has once again stoked the fire for breakfast. She clasps her hands behind her back, walking between the men still tucking away their bedrolls, and raises her voice only as loudly as she absolutely needs to to announce their riding plan for the day. 

After a light porridge breakfast, they’re off, working their way deeper and deeper into the forest until they can cross the river again back into the dry wastes across the river from Nindalf. There was but one recorded bandit raid in the woods, but nobody dwells nearby so they find no more information on it. 

She keeps Windfola near to Elfhelm and Aergewinn, his dark bay stallion. He passes the occasional comment on the terrain, or things they should be looking for, but the silence that lingers between them is not an uncomfortable one, so neither of them are keen to breach it. Anyways, the rest of the men are producing a considerable enough din that they don’t necessarily need to add to it. 

The trees start to thin, and the wastes of Rhúnen Eru stretch out before them, arid and almost entirely abandoned, a grassland that could have been had nature not forsaken it. She wonders if it is within the power of men to revive a land like this, or if it is condemned to dwindle in the limbo between life and death for all time. 

When the sun has reached its apex in the sky, and sweat beads drip down her forehead, neck, chest, and back, they come upon a small settlement of a few homesteads. They are summer cottages for those men of Rohan who have remained relatively nomadic, moving their flocks between the Rhúnen Eru in the summertime and the banks of the Entwash in the wintertime. A hard life, filled with many risks and many sacrifices, but one they have chosen to lead nonetheless. 

Éowyn drops off Windfola, instructing her men to remain outside the bounds of the settlement, and to water their horses in the Anduin while she and Elfhelm speak to the herders. The scraped-out road beneath her feet is dry and dusty, odd for ground so close to a great river, but one of the many facts of the natural world that Éowyn has learned are outwith her ken. She scrapes her toe through the earth, watching as it lightly coats the leather cap of her boot. She can feel the heat rising off the ground, and decides that she does not envy the people who bide here in the punishing heat of summer. 

Elfhelm follows her as she makes her way to one of the only buildings that looks remotely habitable, a long, short structure with few windows, insulated on all sides by a sandy-coloured thicket. They each remove their helms, stowing them under their arms. Sweat drips down her wrist as she reaches out to knock on the door. 

“Enter,” comes a voice from the inside the building, before her knuckles have even grazed the door. She looks to Elfhelm, who is regarding the door with some suspicion, but then pushes it open before he has the chance to voice any concerns. 

The inside of the building is dark and cool, and it takes a few seconds of blindness before Éowyn’s eyes adjust. The house is structured like the oldest houses in Edoras, with beds pitched around a central firepit, and storage along the walls. Everything in the house exists to minimise heat in the daytime, and maximise it in the night. She knows these buildings well. 

“Who are you?” cries the owner of the voice, an ancient woman who looks as parched as the earth beneath her feet.

Éowyn bows her head in deference. “I am Lady Éowyn of Edoras, and this is Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-Mark.” 

“What business have you with simple cattle herders?” The woman interjects before Éowyn can get to explaining exactly that. 

“We have received reports of banditry in the area and have been dispatched by Éomer King to rout them out.”

“Bandits, yes, yes, we’ve had bandits.” Elfhelm stirs next to her. 

“Might we ask you for information? We have been riding for many days seeking out their trail.” The woman looks to the fire she’s stoking, then to Elfhelm, then to Éowyn. 

“Sit,” she commands, and Éowyn wastes no time in complying. 

It turns out that bandits have been harassing them for months now, since well before the springtime and the Battles at the Hornburg and the Pelennor. At first, Hleo — the woman — says, the bandits were Southrons (no doubt chased northwards by the Rangers of Ithilien being too lenient in their apportionment of justice, Éowyn thinks), but after the start of summer, they were no longer Southron, but well-dressed men, with fine horses and clean armour. The settlement at Rhúnen Eru had housed ten families at the start of the season, now only three remained. Some had been murdered by bandits, others had had their livestock stolen and had been forced to ride to stable settlements in the Eastfold. 

They have two months until they make for the Entwash, and they are unsure if they will survive that long. The remaining families are older, with little in the way of defence except prayer. Éowyn crosses her arms, and extends her legs out before her, relishing the stretch in her hamstrings.

“I will send my messenger to Meduseld and entreat the King to send a patrol force to monitor the area. Tomorrow, I take my men down the marshes of the Anduin where we intend to uncover and crush the bandits. You will make it to the end of summer yet.” The woman looks unconvinced by Éowyn’s promises, but she thanks them anyways, and offers them boarding in one of the empty storage barns, which Elfhelm gladly accepts before Éowyn has the chance to.

Outside again, Éowyn sketches out a map of the curve of the Anduin and its tributaries in the dust. From memory, she points out the locations of reported raids, and tells Elfhelm her theory about it being Southrons forced northwards out of Ithilien. 

“Do you doubt your man’s skill as a captain?” Elfhelm teases, and Éowyn looks across the grasslands into the grueling sun. 

“We differ on the threshold for mercy,” she says simply, and then returns to her map. So far, Elfhelm seems to agree with her, though he’s fixating on Hleo’s mention of _clean armour_ — not exactly a known trait of the Southerners. 

“And why take livestock? The Southerners have never had a need for flocks before.” She nods, it’s true, the kind of petty thievery has long been below them, though if they have become more desperate since the fall of the Enemy… 

“I will send word to Éomer. We will hope for stopgap measures until we can uncover the larger story. In the meantime, we continue south.” She feels the waistband of her breeches through her tunic, it grows looser and looser around her stomach by the day. “Hopefully we can avoid any interactions with the Gondorians. I have met the Lord of Anórien, and I am not keen to repeat the experience before I must.” 

“Before your wedding, you mean,” Elfhelm says, smiling cheekily. 

“If my husband-to-be respects diplomacy in his marriage and in his Kingdom, he will ensure that I stay very far away from that foul, foul man.” And then she laughs, erasing the map with the sole of her shoe. “But perhaps a bride cannot be faulted for what she does on her wedding day after many drinks, and maybe then, for my sake, he should keep us very close together.” 

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

Éowyn dispatches her messenger shortly thereafter. Then, after giving her men leave for the remainder of the day, makes her way to the banks of the river. It’s wide here, slower moving than anywhere else they’ve seen it so far. She follows its sandy banks until she comes across a small inlet, hidden from sight by dried bushes and dead trees. There, she drops her mantle to the ground, and then her surcoat, relaxing as the trapped heat around her body is released into the air. She is used to life in the shadow of the mountains, where the air, even in the summertime, is less oppressive. She has not yet been to Emyn Arnen, but she hopes it will be a similar climate there; she’s really not cut out for the heat.

The water lazing by her looks cold, so cold that it might drop her temperature for several hours if she wades in long enough. She drops onto her mantle and reaches down to slide off her boots, setting them upright next to her. She looks upriver, trying to calculate how obscured the view would be of her if she were to slip in here. The tree cover is significant, and she doesn’t hear anybody nearby, certainly can’t see anyone either. She stares at the water for a moment, weighing up her options. It might not be until Aldburg that she’ll get a chance to wash herself properly again, and she _does_ have the rest of the day free. 

Her decision is made.

Her sword belt and dagger are discarded first. Then she pulls her tunic up over her head and dumps it next to her boots, leaning back on her elbows to begin unlacing her breeches. She tugs her small clothes off on her way into the water, balling them up and throwing them behind her as she takes the first precious steps into the cold, cold water. At first, she shivers, her teeth instinctually chattering, but the longer she stands, shin-deep in water, the more comfortable it gets, until she’s able to reach thigh-height, chest-height, and finally coming to tread water with only her head above the surface. 

She dips her head back, wetting the hair at her scalp, and listens to the rushing of the water around her. She thinks again of Baldwine’s stories, of secret trysts in inappropriate places. In her mind’s eye, she sees Faramir approaching the riverbank, stripping bare, and diving into the water with her, letting her feel the sinews of his arms, the tight muscle at his back, the rough scrape of the stubble on his cheeks. She can almost feel him wrapping his arms around her, mouthing at her neck, and pushing himself into her, over and over until her mind goes blank. 

Behind her, a crack in the forest. 

Her eyes fly open, and she sucks a breath in through her nose, lowering herself as far into the water as she can without compromising her sight. At first, there is no movement, and she wonders if she hadn’t imagined the noise, but then she sees movement in the trees on the far bank, just slight disturbances in the thick forestation, and then what is obviously a person moving through it. She raises up slightly to take in another breath and get a better vantage point. It’s a mistake. The figure in the wood turns to look at her, and for a moment the breath is knocked from her lungs. 

But it seems that the figure is as alarmed by her presence as she is by his, and he turns and flees. For twenty minutes, she does not move a muscle that isn’t necessary for keeping her from drowning, until the forest has been quiet for nineteen minutes and her muscles have been screaming for fifteen. Slowly, quietly, she drags herself out of the water, dries herself in a rush job with her mantle, and dresses, pulling her boots on as she begins to run back to the settlement. 

In sight of her men, she slows her pace to a fast walk, doing nothing to indicate any urgency, though she quickly turns her head this way and that, seeking out Elfhelm.

“Halig! What have you done with my Marshal?” She calls at her nearest subordinate. He turns around and laughs at her.

“Your brother’s Marshal, isn’t he?” She tilts her head and raises her eyebrow, even though she does smile. Halig relents, “He’s round the backside of the barn.”

“Aren’t we all?” She makes a valiant attempt at the joke, but her voice comes out uneasily, and it’s obvious he isn’t sold on it. She speeds up, careening around the barn before she has to answer any questions.

Elfhelm sits with a whetstone beneath his knees, taking his sword to task. 

“I encountered someone in the forest on the opposite bank just now. Where’s the nearest crossing?” The Marshal looks at her, pulls his blade through the sharpening stone one more time, and then sheaths it.

“Well past the Falls of Rauros to the north, Cair Andros to the south. River might be fordable around Nindalf, but it’d be a foolish endeavour.” 

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

She stays awake long after her men are long lost to the realm of sleep, tending the embers of the fire and considering the puzzle laid out before her. She is happy to joke, yes, about Faramir’s Rangers having driven bandits into Rohan, but in her heart she cannot imagine it to be true. The war had demanded terror of its combatants, and she has seen in his eyes what that meant; any man who escaped the Rangers of Ithilien did so with luck on his side, not as part of an organised group. So if these bandits did not come up from the south, then they could have come from the smoldering remains of Mordor, or Dagorlad (bereft as it was of life), or even the far north — though even with the loss of the elves of Mirkwood, she can’t imagine that much could have popped up there without alerting either Rohan or Gondor. But if they did not come from outwith the kingdoms, then they must have come from within. And her faith in the rulers of the two kingdoms is strong enough that she can’t countenance that thought. 

In these moments, she longs for Faramir. Even if he doesn’t have all the answers all the time, his steadying hand works wonders on her own thoughts, and he might help her to reveal what she has yet overlooked. She wonders if it would be too extravagant to send a messenger to Minas Tirith. It has been _so_ long since she has last sent or received a letter from him, and if she sends a messenger quickly enough, he might have returned before they arrive in the Eastfold. Éomer would never have to know of her folly… 

Hulac snorts in his sleep, and Éowyn realises how very late it is. Before she can even begin to return her thoughts to her predicament, she is fast asleep. 

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

If Éomer could see what she is seeing now, she knows there’s no way he would’ve allowed her to take this mission.

But Éomer isn’t seeing it, and Éowyn is, so she has to contend with the sight of women and men impaled on crude stakes, their entrails spilling out onto the ground in a horrific display. She jumps from Windfola, tethering her to a fencepost and moving to check the empty houses, sword drawn. 

“The White Hand, my lady,” Folcred announces, pointing to the doorway of the last house left to check. She freezes. It _is_ the White Hand, but Saruman is dead, she knows this to be true, Faramir himself had seen the wizard fall, had killed his snake of a servant. No, it is _a_ white hand, but it is not _the_ White Hand. 

She steels herself, rolling her shoulders for strength, and then approaches the door, pushing it open with the tip of her blade. The house wails — the occupants of the house wail. _Children_. She stows her blade, removes her helm, and falls to her knees in front of them. They flinch, and her heart cries out. 

“When did this happen to you?” She asks, and the eldest child, a girl no older than ten, moves forward. 

“An hour ago, mum said to wait in here, so we’ve waited, but mum hasn’t returned.” Bile rises in her throat. 

“I will get you somewhere safe, come, follow me.” The children resist, and Éowyn is more aware in this moment than at any point in her life that she is not at all equipped to deal with children. She tries a different tack. “I am a princess of this land, come, I will send you to my palace where you will be safe.” The younger girl looks sold, the elder sceptical. 

“A princess with a sword?” She asks, and Éowyn marvels at the capacity of children to wade through trauma to ask the pertinent questions. 

“Indeed, and it is a sword that will protect you, but we must get you to my king.” She senses Elfhelm approach the doorway, and she turns to address him in Westron, not Rohirric. “Send Halig and Fastred to Aldburg, Erkenbrand will send them to my brother.”

“Is not Minas Tirith closer?”

“Closer, but the path might not be clear, and I would not send these children to a country that does not speak their language.” Elfhelm seems to acknowledge this logic, and gestures for the children to follow him. 

For a moment, in the darkness of the household, Éowyn feels tears threatening. She covers her eyes with a dirt-smeared hand, hoping to remain in the darkness evermore, but one, two, then three breaths come slowly through her lungs, and she is centred again. 

Outside once more, in the bright, taunting sun, she addresses her men: “The bandits were here not an hour ago. We ride south on their heels. Folcred, you carry up the rear, Hulac and Baldwine flank Elfhelm. I will lead.” She crosses the distance to the fencepost where Windfola is tethered, vaults into her saddle and, when she’s satisfied that Halig, Fastred, and the children are a far enough distance away, she sets Windfola off into a run.

It’s a hard ride, made worse by the marsh terrain in the Mouths of the Entwash that captures their horses’ legs wholesale. They are unquestionably nearing Gondorian territory now, perhaps even crossing into it, but she will beg for both kings’ forgiveness later — now, she has finally caught the scent of her quarry, and will not stop until victory or death. 

They cover the distance that would take a normal horse an hour in three-quarters that time, pushing their well-bred horses to the limits of their physiology. Beneath Éowyn’s legs, Windfola is becoming uneasy with their riding, and behind her she can hear Aergewinn beginning to give Elfhelm grief, too. If they can impede these bandits within the next ten miles, they will have to camp in situ, she surely won’t be able to justify riding further today, even if it is early afternoon. 

They are rewarded for their hard work with catching a raid in progress. They can hear it before they see it, the sound echoing out beyond the low thatched roofs of an otherwise-nondescript settlement banking one of the Entwash’s fingers. They close ranks and slow to a canter a quarter of a league from the first building. It gives Éowyn just enough time to assess the terrain. 

The buildings of the settlement are spaced so that they all face outwards towards the swamp in a semicircular formation. It seems likely that the earth in front of and around the buildings will have been tamed, if those structures are to even gesture at sturdiness, and she cannot see any mounted bandits (nor, notably, any sign of horses at all). If they can drive the bandits out into the marshland, they might be able to press their mounted advantage, even if the horses do not much like it. 

Elfhelm arrives beside her, and she sketches out her plan. He nods gravely and then points out a boggy knoll that, if properly exploited, will earn them an ever greater advantage. 

“Clear from the east side and push westerly, buy me clearance to check for the settlers.” Elfehelm raises his eyebrow but she shakes her head at him. “The women and children will not be _my_ last priority.” 

She raises her left hand in a three-fingered signal, and her men form into a charge formation, leaving Folcred and his bow protected in the back. There is no time for the element of surprise, they are forced to break _through_ the raid, hoping that the strength of their horses and skill will throw the bandits off their guard. 

Éowyn charges first — it is only right that a commanding officer take the greatest responsibility for their manoeuvre — and so is the first to realise that they are very, very seriously outnumbered, even if their initial charge has worked to break up some of the more disproportionate violence. It’s too late for a reappraisal of their tactics, and Elfhelm seems to have come to the same conclusion as he wheels in behind her, cutting down two bandits with one drive of his blade.

“Buy me time,” she yells to her Marshal, and then doubles back half of a mile, tethering Windfola to the most distantly northern post. She runs until her lungs feel as though they’re bleeding, until she’s back in the heart of the action as her men make a strong ploy to force the bandits out. She’s read the terrain well, and the bandits seem to be doing all that they can to keep from getting sucked into the swampland, but her men are nothing if not excellent herders, and the bandits are rapidly losing on that front. 

Trusting in their ability to keep her safe, she tries to figure out her best path forward. Two things become immediately obvious to her: first, she needs to check all the houses for children, and second, she needs to get all the children into one house and defend it with her life. 

One of the bandits makes the mistake of getting in the way of her ability to see and she slits his throat, kicking his body to prevent it from impeding her path. In the centre of the fighting now, she can no longer see all that is coming to pass, but she can see that the bandits are highly trained. They fight well; even against the sheer bulk of the Rohirrim they are holding their own. One fighter, short but broad-shouldered, makes a stab for Elfhelm, and she runs her blade into his hamstring, dropping him instantly. 

Baldwine lurches past her, chasing a hooded bandit further away from the line of houses, and she sees her moment. Ducking her head, she sprints to the house opposite, kicking open the door. Huddled inside are a small family, two children and a mother, who look at her as if she’s arrived to murder them.

“Follow me to safety, we must go now.” She tries her luck in Westron, unsure even now which side of the border they’re on. “Please, I have the support of the King.” Also trying her luck, but still technically true in the broadest sense. 

The woman grabs her two children by the hands, and waits for Éowyn, who sticks her head out of the house. Satisfied that the bulk of the fighting has been moved from the square, she motions for the family to follow her, and then tries the door of the adjacent house. It swings open and she ushers the family inside to face another terrified looking set of children.

“This woman is here to protect us,” the woman says in Rohirric to the two new children, and Éowyn heaves a sigh of relief.

“How many children are in this town? I need to bring them all here,” she asks in Rohirric, keeping an eye on the fighting outside.

“Five. There’s one more little girl, Merthwyn, in the very last house,” the woman tells her. Éowyn nods, bracing herself on the threshold of the door. 

Almost all of the bandits have been driven out into the marsh where Folcred is picking them off with impressive speed, but some yet linger in the settlement, trying their hands against Hulac. She watches her window for access to the last house opening, and she turns to the scared women and children. “I beg you, do not open the door for anyone but me.” 

With that, she turns and spends her chances, running headlong for the house. A hooded bandit she had not seen steps out from an alley between two houses, forcing her to skid to a halt. He is well-armed, he waves his intricately engraved estoc before her, but he is not so well resourced in the art of thinking. While she raises her sword to him in challenge, she unsheathes Faramir’s dagger from around her waist, saunters forward, and presses it through the soft skin at his throat. 

He looks at her, his face contorted in surprise, and then slumps backwards into himself and then onto the ground. As he falls, a light reflects off his mantle, catching Éowyn’s eye: a small, white quartz brooch in the shape of a flame pinned just above his chest. She reaches down to unpin it, sliding it into the wrist of her gloves for safekeeping. Another curious artefact from an unendingly confusing affair. 

Certain that no one else is about to jump out at her, Éowyn wipes her dagger on the exposed thigh of her breeches and stores it, then steals over to the final house, checking her area for combatants before pressing on the door. 

The child inside, Merthwyn, is hardly a child at all — barely able to toddle on her own two feet, and aware of nothing more than that something is very, very wrong. Merthwyn sobs, and Éowyn clutches her in her arms. “It will be okay, dear child, you are safe now.” 

A horn blasts in the distance, clear and bright over the cacophony of metal clashing against metal and the yells of men. If the bandits are calling for reinforcements, then this fight will have become exponentially more frustrating. She bounces Merthwyn in her arms, staring out the front window to see that no obstacles have cropped up between them and the safe house. The horn blasts again, and Éowyn makes a break for it, calling into the safehouse so that the woman might open the door. 

“Where are the men? And the other mothers?” She asks, transferring Merthwyn to safer arms. 

“They are fighting. Or were fighting, I know not of where they are now.” It is the bad news Éowyn did not want to hear: many children have been made orphans tonight.

“You understand what that means, do you not?” The woman shakes her head grimly, and Éowyn lays her hand on her shoulder. “We will avenge them.” 

Outside, the horn blasts for a third time. Now, she’s really confused — are the bandits calling for aid that is abandoning them? It’s time for her to find out. 

“Stay here. One of my men will find you when it is done. They will speak in our tongue.” 

Éowyn unsheathes her sword once more, and pulls open the door once more, blinking into the sunlight. 

“Halt!” calls a man, speaking in Westron. Éowyn cocks her blade, trying to make heads or tails out of the man. “Halt, raider!”

She steps forward, “I am no—,” she recognises the unmistakable twang of a loosed arrow seconds before she is sent flying backwards into the doorway, a searing pain rocketing up her shield arm. “My wedding day approaches you fool,” she seethes. 

On righting herself, she gets a better view of the man, and emits a groan of unbridled rage. He is wearing the emblem of the White Tree of Gondor. 

“You are firing on a captain of the Mark!” She stumbles backwards when a shock of pain forces a twitch through her arm. “Take me to your commanding officer,” she pauses to bite back a scream. “And tell your men we are Riders of Rohan, aim for the men on foot!”

Chastened, the archer beckons her forward, navigating her back behind two of the houses to a short line of Gondorian archers. Her assailant speaks quickly to the commander, who interrupts him to call for another volley. She watches as they knock their arrows, then loose them, raining down a shower of wood and metal onto the bandits. Several more fall, and it seems her men are making quick work of the remaining ones. The arrow that sticks out of her arm quivers, and she turns away from the archers to vomit, her retching only intensifying the pain. Furious, she stalks up to the Gondorian commander. 

“You. Cut this arrow now,” she spits in Sindarin. He blanches, and it ratchets up her anger even more. “Do it now or I will personally see to it that the Lord Steward has you cut down.” She can tell in that moment that neither of them believe her threats, but he reaches forward and snaps the arrow in half. She shrieks out as the pain rockets through her body, sending shocks up her spine and into her head, triggering a vicious headache. 

“You have breached the borders of the Kingdom of Rohan and shot one of its captains. I will corral my men, and then _you_ will take me to _your_ commanding officer.” The commander nods, and she squints at him, finding his face vaguely familiar. Content with his deference, she returns to the marshland, where her men are circling and counting the dead raiders. 

She clears her throat, then speaks. “Hulac, fetch me Windfola, he is tethered to the north. Elfhelm, retrieve the families and prize out what information you can.” 

“You are injured, my lady.” Elfhelm doesn’t bother to hide the concern in his voice. 

“Yes, thanks to these southern oafs. I am riding to their encampment to speak to their commanding officer. When you are done here, follow after me and I will provide further instruction.” 

She remains rooted to the spot, seething and swaying slightly, trying to pay attention to anything but the blistering pain in her arm until Hulac arrives with Windfola. With an ear-splitting scream of pain, she pulls herself into the saddle, and rides to the Gondorian commander, who has mounted his own horse and leads her forward. She presses onwards, hot, unbidden tears spilling down and chafing her cheeks under her helm. 

The command outpost is a far cry from the seat of privilege she had been expecting, little more than a series of tents surrounded by a guard platoon. It only makes her angrier. Gondor is staging mini-invasions into _her_ country and the best they could do is a couple of canvas bags and some halfwit archers? 

“Who goes there?” calls the front guard, and she glares angrily at her Gondorian escort, who has obviously not given the signal for safe passage. 

“I am Éowyn, captain of the Mark,” she presses out through gritted teeth. The gate guard tenses imperceptibly, and she wonders if he has heard her name before. 

“In that tent,” says her escort, and Éowyn, who is not yet at the level of anger required to run her horse _through_ a tent, follows his lead to dismount with another cry of pain. 

“Tether my horse. Watch that you treat him well or I shall make you pay,” she says to an idle guard, and then follows her escort towards the tent, trying to ignore the six inches of arrow that still stick out of her arm. 

“My lord, I bring an urgent visitor,” he announces on approach to the tent, whipping its cloth door open. 

And then, not for the first time today, she is rendered speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i am starting another new fic when i've got loads of WIPs! classic!
> 
> anyways this was initially meant to be the second entry in a series i've been working on for a while, but i got a little overeager. you should be able to pick up the gist of it contextually but: faramir goes to imladris instead of boromir, some things change, some don't.
> 
> i've cribbed a lot of my ideas in here from other fics, i will get better about documenting my influences, but for now i owe a great and general debt to the wonderful stewards of this fandom.


	2. Chapter 2

“Thank you Anborn, you may take your leave.” Anborn — who she definitely recognises now, bows his head and escapes, not wasting a second in pulling the tent opening closed behind him. 

She’s prepared to be angry with him, prepared to throw her helmet to the ground and yell and curse at him, but the adrenaline is wearing off and the pain is overtaking her. All she can do is remove her helm and wobble on her shaking legs. 

“In Rohan, the customary engagement gift is a broodmare,” she rasps. Faramir crosses the distance to the door of the tent in the blink of an eye, calling for someone. Then he grabs her around the hips, and walks her backwards toward his cot. Her head is shrieking with pain, her vision tunnelling. 

More people enter the tent, and the pain is so intense everything feels a bit fuzzy. Someone puts a leather strap in her mouth that tastes like foul grain alcohol, and she lets the exhaustion overcome her at last.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

She wakes to blinding pain, and reels off a string of curses to announce her presence. Someone laughs. 

“The Lady of Rohan speaks!” She opens her eyes to darkness and panics. “Éowyn, peace, you have slept through to night.” 

“My arm?” She rasps, waiting for her eyes to adjust. 

“Still there, which is a damning indictment of my archers, but I have to admit I’m glad of their failure in this case.” She pulls herself up to a seated position, profoundly woozy.

“That’s very charitable of you, my lord.” Faramir is seated on the ground beside her — his — cot, watching her closely. She sighs, the day's events flooding back to her. “The King of Rohan’s sister was shot _in_ Rohan by men under the command of the Lord Steward of Gondor.” His face is unreadable, but he nods tightly. 

“I have struggled in vain to explain it more gently,” he tells her.

“ _Why_ are you in Rohan? Why are _you_ in Rohan?” Her voice is frayed, she’s too worn out for anger now. 

“The official story is that I’m seeing to bandit attacks in Anórien,” she looks down at her arm while he speaks. It’s bandaged heavily and bruised above and below the line of the bandages, but her fingers move when she commands them to, so all hope is not lost. “The truth is that we are worried about troop movements along the Anduin.” 

“We?” she asks bitterly, before realising it’s a silly question. 

“Myself and King Elessar. The adjustment period for his reign has been less than ideal and it seems there have been some concerning movements in and around the area.”

She looks at him, trying to make out his features in the pale orange light of the only candle in the tent. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and light stubble cropping up across his cheeks. She wants to pull him into her arms, to kiss his face and hear his sorrows, but her mind is slowly whirring back to life and she knows she is responsible for more than her own happiness right now. 

“My men…”

“Have arrived and have been fed. Marshal Elfhelm was in here until an hour or so ago and has briefed me on your mission.” 

She flexes her fingers, feels the reticulated pain in her arm. “I found an emblem on one of the bandits in Rhúnen Eru, I wasn’t sure what to make of it.”

“The brooch that was in your gloves?” She nods. “I don’t know what to make of it either, except that it seems to confirm my fears that this is a better organised bunch than petty bandits.” Thoughts bounce around the pain-hollowed cavern of her brain, and she struggles to capture them and put them to words.

“Will I be able to ride?” She looks at her palm, there’s some minor bruising on it, but nothing she can’t grin and bear. 

“With some pain, yes. The wound itself will take several months to heal.” 

She laughs bitterly. “Bandages under my wedding gown. I am becoming a caricature of myself.” 

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

She sleeps outside with her men as a point of principle, though she regrets it enormously when she wakes up in the morning and her arm feels as if it’s about to fall out of its socket. Still, she pulls herself to order and slinks over to Elfhelm, who looks profoundly unimpressed with the situation.

“They shot _you_ on _our_ land,” he mutters, shaking his head, and Éowyn sympathises with his frustrated shock.

“Not a good shot either, I’m still alive. Maybe our forces were more important at the Pelennor than I thought,” she says with a cheeky grin. “What do you think of these men?” 

Elfhelm looks out at the encampment, where her men mingle amicably with Faramir’s men.“I fought with many of them at the Black Gate —.”

“— Drank with them at the Cormallen, you mean?” 

He laughs. “Yes. But if they fight half as well as they drink then they must be a fearsome bunch.” 

Anborn, who looks at her with some fear in his eyes ( _Good_.) approaches to tell them his captain is hoping to meet with him. She quirks an eyebrow at him referring to Faramir as a captain, but follows him, Elfhelm moseying along behind her. 

Faramir, it seems, has decided to make the most out of having two forces together while he has the chance, and has drawn up an elaborate scouting plan for today, doubling back along the ground Éowyn and her riders have already trodden. As he speaks, she finds the anger she had lost yesterday rising in her and she squares her posture, rearing for a fight.

“If you are so certain these bandit attacks are part of some larger plot, why, pray tell me, did you not merely contact my brother? We sent a messenger a month ago, surely it does not take a month for the great Houses of Isildur and Húrin to conjure up the words for a single letter?” Both Elfhelm and Anborn seem to melt back into the scenery. 

Faramir sighs deeply, and Éowyn can feel the resignation billowing off him in waves. “We received a messenger from Rohan two weeks ago, but it was obvious that this messenger was not a man of Rohan, and that the letter he bore was not written in the hand of Éomer King. We had thought to send an armed envoy, but knew that with so much suffering in Rohan that the King might not want to be troubled with half-understood stories and minor suspicions.”

“Your underestimation of my brother is duly noted, and I shall happily report to him that his southern allies think him a fool and an incompetent who cannot manage his own intelligence.” 

“Peace, my lady. It is not out of disrespect that we did not contact him, but consideration — Éomer King’s priorities are of such an importance that we sought not to embarrass ourselves before him until it became absolutely necessary to do so.” She glares at Faramir, can he really think her so stupid as to believe _that_ line of argument?

“My lord, you have spent too much time surrounded by your haughty politicians if you think I am to be convinced by that.” He looks at her blankly. He’s backing down from the challenge.

“Let us carry out this scouting mission in the hopes that it will furnish us both with better intelligence to bring back to our respective kings,” he says diplomatically. She casts a sideways glance to Elfhelm, who nods tightly.

“Fine, but I go. I’m not putting my men in the firing line to indulge your half-cocked invasion into Rohan.”  
“My lady, your arm —,” she puts her hand up to stop him.

“If you had concerns about my health, you should have made them known _before_ you shot me.”

Faramir’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing more on it. Instead he sketches out patrol routes for Anborn. Éowyn instructs Elfhelm to send riders to Aldburg to bring back support for the ruined settlement and to send men out with Anborn’s patrols to lend at least a shred of legitimacy to the operation. 

She suspects that Faramir had not initially intended to go out on the scouting mission himself, but he nonetheless packs his horse and meets her at the edge of the encampment not an hour later, looking vaguely annoyed. She hurdles into Windfola’s saddle, biting back a groan as the dull pain in her shoulder reminds her that she is not, in fact, in the ideal health for this particular mission. 

They ride from camp in silence, Éowyn working overtime to wrap her head around the events of the past two days. She hadn’t expected that this excursion would be entirely without obstacles — but she had truly expected them to be of the Orcish kind, not a rapidly complicating tale of political manipulation. And she certainly hadn’t expected to come back from all this with yet another unnecessary injury. Windfola is quick to express his frustrations at trudging through the marshy land again, and Éowyn sympathises. Back in the shit once more, with no end in sight. 

She thinks about how just days ago she’d been longing to see Faramir, wasting every moment of her precious spare time thinking about him, and now that he’s here with her, she’s too frustrated to even speak to him. She laughs at the absurdity of it all, and he looks across at her, face totally stoic. 

“I’ve done nothing but distract myself with fantasies of you, and now that I have you near me I can think of nothing to say to you,” she smiles to lighten the blow of her words, then looks out at the flat land that stretches for a hundred miles before them. 

“These are not the circumstances under which I’d expected to next see you,” he says, sounding a little sadder about it than she’s willing to let him be on her account. 

“And I did not expect to meet the love of my life in the depths of my sorrow, so perhaps we must make peace with finding each other at inconvenient moments.” This seems to lighten his mood somewhat, and the silence that stretches between them now is more companionable. The sun is still hot, tempered only by the slight breeze rolling off the rushing river, which also provides the only noise here. She closes her eyes from time to time, breathing in the clean air and feeling the steady, consistent rhythm of Windfola beneath her. 

Faramir gets over his discomfort and tells her about the building progress at Emyn Arnen, how he’d ridden out a few weeks ago in time to see the new windows fitted. She has no picture in her head of what Emyn Arnen will be like, but she hopes that it will be nothing like the staid houses of Minas Tirith. She wants to live somewhere that feels like this grassland, open, bright, limitless. She rubs the soft leather of Windfola’s reins between her fingers and remembers Faramir’s words to her; _all things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes._ There is hope yet. 

The sun melts into the horizon and the emptiness of the landscape begins to feel like a threat. They make for a small grouping of trees near the riverside and tether their horses. She sends Faramir to fill her flagon with fresh water while she feeds the horses. 

She watches him crouch by the riverside, running his hands through the water. It has been a long time since she’s seen him outside the oppressive walls of Minas Tirith, and she’s forgotten that this is how he was when first they met: a man who was at home in the wild; nature had been as freeing to him as it is now to her. 

She builds a fire only when they have to. She keeps it small, builds a circle of rocks around it to keep the embers from jumping out of the flame. When their food is warmed over, she douses it quickly with water. The moon will be their light tonight. 

They sit beside each other on his mantle, eating warm bread and dried meats. She stretches her legs out in front of her, pressing the muscles of her injured arm to ease the tension. She knows now that she got lucky, in the frenzy of battle her brain had forgotten to remind her body that arrows to the arm usually end in acute damage or amputation. She will have to be more careful than she’s being now with it if she wants to maintain that luck, otherwise she might well find herself without her shieldarm entirely. 

With sobriety in her heart, she broaches the topic she’s been avoiding all day. “You should have told me. If not my brother, then at least me. There is plenty of travel between our borders that continues uncorrupted by bandits, you could have found a way.” Her voice comes louder than she’d intended, harsh in the soft darkness of the night. “I am not some foreign malcontent to be appeased with kernels of gossip, I am going to be your _wife_.” 

He looks up at her, pushing a pebble through the dirt. “There were extenuating circumstances, you have heard what they are.” His face is unreadable, which only spurs her anger on further; he can play the unflappable scholar in public, but not with her. _Never_ with her. 

“No. I heard excuses from a man who has been so blinded by his own insecurities that he stumbled,” she glares at him, but he looks only at the ground. “You have spent too long cloistered with those connivers and grandstanders. You have let them taint your thoughts with paranoia.”

“It’s not so simple.” She can hear his breathing, barely controlled. There’s nobody for twenty leagues in all directions to hear them fight, she _hates_ that he’s still trying to mask his emotions.

“It is! You move in the shadows and shirk your allies once more because you think you are on the back foot, that you have been caught out by some unknown threat.” He finally looks up at her, stormy grey eyes meeting blue, and her breath catches in her throat.

“We have been,” his voice is barely more than a low growl, rumbling up from his chest, and suddenly she feels as though she’s being hunted. Her knuckles go white.

“Then do not cower in the shadows, meet the threat head on! You are Faramir, son of Denethor, you have rebuilt a kingdom brought to ruin by your forebears! You have faced the Ring of Power and turned your back on it! You are _not_ weak _._ ” 

He kisses her so hard she’s sure her lips will bruise. 

It’s an awkward position, she’s pinned to the ground by one of his hands on her hip, the other pulling her chin up to meet him. She’s frozen to the spot, too shocked to do anything, her mind racing. Then he sucks on her bottom lip and whatever remains of her already negligible self control melts away. She fists her good hand in his hair, forcing him closer to her. 

He breaks away and she gasps for air, dizzied. He grabs her by the waist and hauls her further up onto his cloak. He works quickly, kissing along her jawline, the column of her throat, sucking at the pulse point beneath her ear, teeth scraping against the skin at the crook of her neck. He tugs on the neck of her tunic and sucks a bruise into the newly-exposed skin. Her ragged breaths are the only noise in the night. 

“Fara—,” she gasps, making a desperate bid to stay attached to reality, but he’s tugging the hem of her tunic up, his blunt nails dragging across the plane of her stomach, and she’s done for. His deft fingers untie the laces at her waistband before she can get air moving through her lungs again, and then he’s got his hand on her lower back, pushing her upper body into his shoulder so he can leverage her weight to pull her breeches down.

He nudges her knees apart, then drops down between them. She thinks she might black out. 

He kisses the soft skin at the inside of her knee — blackened by a bruise she hadn’t realised she’d picked up — and she sucks in a quick breath. His teeth and tongue drag along the inside of her thigh, and he adds more soft, sweet bruises to her collection. Her blood feels like it’s on fire, every part of her touched by lightning. 

Stopping to pull her legs over his shoulders, he peppers more sharp kisses along her thighs, creeping ever further up her leg. He reaches one hand up, cupping her through the thin fabric of her slip and her hips buck involuntarily. She swears she can hear him laugh. 

His stubble catches against the soft hairs at the top of her thigh, and her jaw slackens, he’s going to leave scratches _all over_ her legs. She cards her fingers through his dark hair and he makes a dangerous noise in the back of his throat, sending a warm breath across her sensitive skin.

When his mouth finally covers her, her moan cuts through the dark, loud and wanton and everything she’s not supposed to be. She throws her head back, her hands flying backwards against the ground to keep her from falling. Her bicep shrieks out in agony, but he’s lapping at her folds like a man who has just found an oasis in a desert, and she’ll just have to deal with the pain later. 

Her hips jerk again, and he moves one hand from behind her knee to her pelvis, stilling her, and the pressure is so intense she can’t help the whimpers that fall like prayers. The muscles in her abdomen quake, her thighs clamp down around his head. There’s a white hot coil winding in her stomach that radiates heat through every inch of her body, and she is going to lose all control over herself underneath the great starry sky. 

Then he slides a finger into her and she can’t hold back the cry that builds inside her. The pressure of his finger curling and relaxing inside her and his tongue and teeth on her wet and sloppy and _wild_ is too much, and her vision starts to tunnel. Her back stretches forward, she’s as tense as a bow strung too tight, just waiting for permission to snap. 

_This_ is the Faramir she loves, the one who knows exactly what she wants, sometimes better than she knows herself, who doesn’t give a damn about the rules if they get in the way of what he needs, who will fall to his knees before her and make her feel like the most important thing in the world. _This_ is who she is marrying.

He pushes another finger inside her and she moans helplessly, the sensation is so consuming. She grinds her hips down against him, desperate for more contact, desperate to chase this feeling to its conclusion. He presses his calloused thumb into her centre, drawing gentle circles against her, and her whole word narrows down to the point where his thumb meets her skin, blindingly hot against the cold night air.

She wants this moment to last forever, this feeling of him systematically taking her apart just to prove her own happiness to her. She wants to run away with him, to hide out here in the wild forever, where neither rules nor walls can cage their love. 

He flexes his fingers inside her and her entire body explodes in hot white light. 

Every inch of her body is on fire, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over her, every muscle in her body contracting and releasing at once. She cries out, her thighs trembling from the exertion. He lays his tongue against her, his fingers continuing their merciless assault on her, and she tumbles into the light again, certain she’s sobbing now. 

With the last ounce of her self-control, she threads her fingers through his hair, pulling him back from her as the shockwaves rocket through her. She keeps her eyes clenched shut, hearing the sound of her ragged breathing slowing to a normal pace as she whimpers through the aftershocks.

When she comes back to herself fully, Faramir has already laced her breeches up again and has begun straightening out her tunic and surcoat. She looks at him through heavy-lidded eyes, feeling herself sway gently in her state of intense relaxation. He cradles her head in his heads, pressing a featherlight kiss to her brow. 

She collapses back onto the ground, boneless and breathless, shivering from the aftershocks. He doesn’t lay down beside her as she hopes he will, and she feels him start to move away from her. 

“No,” she whispers and he laughs. She hears him packing things up around her, he radiates pent-up nervous energy. She can’t conjure up the energy to help him, so she just stares up at the stars, the dark ocean above them. Her arm hurts worse now, and she thinks that maybe she should’ve asked for something to stay the pain, but then no, soldiers probably don’t need special care to keep to their duties after they’re injured, so why should she? 

At long last, he lowers himself onto the ground next to her, kissing her deeply. She can still taste herself on him, and it stirs something animalistic deep inside her. 

“You are right to say that we are insecure,” he begins, and the feeling evaporates. “But we are hesitant to jump to outright violence as a solution so shortly after a war. Were we to make such a choice, a single misstep could destabilise this fragile peace.” 

“But why not enlist the aid of Rohan? We are not so unstable in our power.” He brushes hair from her face, kisses her temple. 

“There are those in Gondor who are embittered by the end of the war, they feel that we should have defended our own capital without the aid of foreign armies.” She frowns — had Gondor not called for Rohan’s aid? Had Éomer and Aragorn not ridden to the Black Gates as brothers in arms? And why are the King and his Steward making themselves subservient to frivolous politicking? Had _they_ not defeated the Enemy? 

He kisses her furrowed brow, and then adjusts them both so that she rests her cheek on his chest, her injured arm blissfully free of weight.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

The morning is hot already when she wakes, and she considers wading into the river until she remembers that she has no spare bandages for her arm. She settles for dipping her feet in it while she waters Windfola, wishing she had worn thinner breeches. 

They eat quickly, then make for the hills, which are now only a few hours’ ride away from them. Faramir points out a thicket at the base of one of the hills closest to the river where they will begin their operations. She thinks that this all seems a little too exposed to be covert, but he’s the one with a decade of experience in this sort of warfare, he must know something she doesn’t. 

She gets him up to speed on the wedding planning as they ride, pointedly reminding him that her brother has yet to receive Gondor’s suggested list of invitees. Poor Éomer seems none too pleased that his first two significant events as King have been his uncle’s funeral and his sister’s wedding, but she suspects that secretly he’s enjoying the chance to organise an officially-sanctioned and diplomatically-astute piss up. Faramir laughs when she tells him this, and reminds her that Théoden’s funeral had not been particularly sedate either.

Silence falls between them as they close in on the small forest, and Éowyn’s heartbeat raises noticeably. Faramir drives a stake into the ground near the river several hundred metres downstream from the thicket, then secures both horses. They take off on foot up the riverbank, using the rushing of the water to cover their footsteps. The Sarn Gebir lies several leagues northward, but its roar is audible even here. 

The thicket ends up being absolutely the correct choice to begin in, she can smell smoke in the air minutes before she can hear voices echoing out from the wood. Faramir motions for her to wait, then scales a tree. She crouches in a dying bramble bush, closing her eyes to better hear the noise. 

She can make out the occasional word in Westron, but nothing to give her any usable information. She crawls further into the bush, wincing when she puts pressure on her dull arm. A small gap in the branches gives her a glimpse of a small gathering of men around a rollicking fire. She counts five, most of them younger than her. One, who appears to be the leader, has the air of Gondorian nobility, bearing the austere, dignified features of those of Númenórean descent, his raven hair partly pulled back behind his face. 

His tunic is painted with the same white hand she’d seen yesterday, but it reveals nothing more to her here. It’s more cleanly designed than the Hand of Saruman, but there are so many reasons that could be the case that that detail in itself is almost meaningless. Their armour is cast aside carelessly, their sword belts removed. If they had brought even one or two more archers they could settle this conflict here and now. She moves slowly backwards through the brambles until she returns to the base of the tree Faramir had climbed up. She can no longer see him, so she makes her way back to the river bank, keeping low to the ground. 

The river narrows considerably here, not enough for a bridge without a significant amount of engineering, but enough that boats could cross it with minimal effort. And both sides of the river are patched by thick forests, which would make hiding boats for repeated crossings easy to do… 

She sees Faramir’s shadow along the mud before she hears him — if she had been his enemy, she would’ve been dead by now. She looks up at him, eyes wide. She has thought of Faramir as many, many things, but this is the first time she has thought of him as _dangerous._ He presses his index finger to his lips, then tilts his head towards where they’ve left the horses. She follows, hyper-aware of every noise around them. 

They ride in silence until the river starts to curve noticeably eastward again and the thicket is a mere dot on the horizon. She is dripping with sweat and fatigued from hunger, but they push on just a bit farther, where the dry earth gives way to soft, richer soil. Her arm starts bleeding again, soaking through the thin muslin of her tunic. At least it doesn’t hurt more than it did. 

“They wore a white hand, did you see?” She asks as she slides off Windfola with a graceless thud. 

“Yes,” he says sombrely, dropping his saddle bag to the ground and tugging off his mantle. 

“What does it mean?” 

He looks off into the bright light of the sun, one hand arched on his hip. “Nothing good.” He wipes his hands together, then sits down on the ground, gazing up at her. “They spoke of receiving a supply shipment north of Cair Andros, which does not inspire confidence."

“Why?”

“There are three major waypoints along the road to Cair Andros, Minas Tirith, Osgiliath, and Minas Morgul. Osgiliath is barren, and any materials passing through it would be expected to terminate there, so we can discount that possibility immediately. If it’s Minas Tirith, we have a substantial political problem, and if it’s Minas Morgul...” 

She kneels down beside him, pulling bread from his saddlebag. “What next, then?” 

“I only know how I should have preferred to have done it during the war. In times of peace it has to be different. We’ll have to be more precise in our movements.” He drinks from his flask, and she tries not to be envious of the drop of the water that slips down his chin. 

“And how should you have done it?” 

“Surveilled their meeting with their supplier, followed them back to their base and then smoked them out. If done right, we could’ve had the problem solved overnight.” She stares at her hands, wonders why they don’t do exactly that. They’ve seen that there is a problem, they even know how to stop the problem swiftly and decisively. So why not take action? Why dither and prolong the potential damage? 

When she looks up at him again, his face is grave, as if he is watching a fight play out before his very eyes. She stows her concerns. 

She kisses the corner of his mouth, willing him to return to her. Still, he looks outward into nothingness, and she cradles his face in her hands, turning him to face her. 

“Stay with me,” she whispers. He nods, his eyes clearing. 

She wants to linger in this moment, even if her arm aches and even if the sun is burning lines into her skin. Here, now, it’s only them and the wide open air. If they distract themselves long enough, they can pretend their problems don’t exist. She decides to do what she can to hurry that along, sliding into his lip and pressing gentle kisses to his neck. 

“Will you come to Minas Tirith?”

She leans back, trying to read his face. “Why? What purpose will my presence serve?”

“None,” he says with a smirk, pushing hair away from her face. “But I have missed you.” 

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

Sometimes, when the night is too dark, or the wind too cool, she dreams of him. 

If she’s lucky, it’s just blurry outlines, muffled noises, nothing she can make sense of except the overwhelming sense of fear. 

If she’s not, she remembers everything. The floor, so cold it hurts her bones, the wool of her gown whispering against the flagstone. The feel of the rough wall beneath her fingertips, catching on loose mortar. The chill that settles around her shoulders. 

The smell of his breath, always just the right side of rancid. 

The way he says her name, like a dark prayer. 

How his eyes, yellowed with age and corruption, slink up her body. 

His fingers, cracked but slightly damp, closing around her neck. Soft at first, then with force. 

The way it’s not the loss of breath that she feels first, but the crushing pressure in her throat, the pumping veins around her eyes. 

It’s not fear then, it’s constriction. She isn’t scared, because her mind can’t get that far. She’s reduced to her primal instinct, and in this moment, with a one hand separating life from death, she freezes. 

She doesn’t scream in her sleep, doesn’t cry, doesn’t make any noise at all. Silence is her only ally. 

The ground beneath her now is soft, then hard. She curls her fingers, dragging her nails through dirt, and then cloth. 

She stands, walks until the ground gets soggy beneath her feet, and breathes. 

She has killed man and beast, seen blood spilled in a hundred different lands, and still it hasn’t truly freed her from him. She has felt unimaginable pain, lived in the depths of despair and risen to the highest peaks of joy, and in all of this she is not safe from him. 

The grass bends and rustles several metres behind her. The sound of deliberate footfalls. He’s still a ways away, doing what he can to make his presence known. A twig snaps behind her and to the right. He’s approaching at an angle so she knows her back is clear. 

“I slept lightly.” He won’t believe her. 

“We can ride now.” He definitely doesn't believe her.

Her tunic billows in the wind. She raises her hand to her throat, there is nothing around it. 

She turns to face him. He holds his hand out to her. 

She takes it. 

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

Her arm aches more the closer they get to the encampment. Her mood spoils, and she scowls at the fussy tents in the distance. When they dismount, Faramir calls Anborn into his tent and Éowyn goes in search of Elfhelm. 

“The Gondorians have a mess on their hands,” he tells her, and she nods. 

“They are wholly unprepared and only willing to take half steps. It will continue to spill into Gondor unless they are convinced to act.” She kicks the dirt beneath her. 

“So you will go into the nest of vipers?” She glances up at Elfhelm, studying his expression. He’s not implying anything about her, just asking if she’s going to do something that _makes sense_. She chastises herself for thinking that Elfhelm might think unkindly upon her; it was in his Éored that she had ridden to the Pelennor, under his implicit consent that she had taken to the field of battle. He knew all the while who Dernhelm truly was, and had spoken nothing of it. He would not fail her here.

“Someone has to talk sense into them, and I fear at this point there are vanishingly few people who can.” 

“I think you should bring the troop with you, I know that the King has spoken otherwise, but our patrols yesterday left me uneasy.” She nods. If Éomer is going to be unhappy, at least this is Elfhelm’s suggestion. 

They move to the small fire, and Elfhelm takes a seat on a makeshift bench beside it. The men around it have obviously been engaging in a bawdy conversation, because the Gondorians fall as silent as the dead when she approaches, while her boys continue to laugh loudly. She accepts a flagon from Folcred, and then a pipe from Elfhelm when it is lit. Evidently they are not expecting any more work today. She won’t complain. 

Baldwine tells yet another of his stories (this, she is certain, must be a fantasy). He describes in colourful language an aborted attempt by his weaver to climb through his window at night, begging for him to take her, only to be betrayed by a cavalcade of sneezes, brought on by the glimmering powder she’d used on her chest. 

One of the Gondorians begins to recount the trouble some of the Rangers of Ithilien got into while in a border town in Anórien before the war began in earnest. They had been joined by the son of the Steward and the son of the King of Rohan, who had both blown through nearly twice the amount of ale the rest of them had, and still managed to best them all in swordplay outside the tavern. Her heart clenches, hearing about Théodred as she remembers him, happy and rambunctious, makes her miss him all the more. 

After Boromir and Theódred had disappeared into the night (Éowyn smiles at this), the Rangers convinced some townswomen to join them in the stables until the very early hours of the morning. The Gondorian suddenly looks flustered, then looks to Éowyn. “Forgive me, my lady, the Captain was not with us,” he says hurriedly. 

“Because he was too busy quoting Elven poetry at the barmaid!” cries a man next to him, and Éowyn snorts. 

“Yes, that sounds like him,” she says, shaking her head. 

“What news is there of Edoras, my lady?” asks a man who looks frightfully young, barely out of his teenage years. 

She swigs from the flask, now returned to her after making its way around the circle. “Our rebuilding continues apace, though the summertide festivities threaten our progress far more than any army of Mordor ever could,” she answers. Below her, Elfhelm laughs in agreement.

“I imagine planning a state wedding doesn’t help things either.” Éowyn smiles. Faramir approaches, keeping a deliberate distance from the column of smoke. 

“Assuming the lady is not shot down by the bridegroom's men before she reaches the altar,” she says acerbically. 

“A much scarier sentiment when you stand before us with an arrow still protruding from your arm, my lady,” he replies, and she’s charmed by the archer’s candor. Faramir cocks his head towards his tent. She passes the flagon and pipe to Elfhelm, then follows. 

“Not scandalising my men too much, are you?” He asks, holding the canvas door open for her. 

“The other way around, actually. I’m surprised your stiff upper lips can even pronounce the words to tell those lecherous stories.” Faramir smirks. 

“I know nothing about it.” 

She drops onto his cot, raising her eyebrow at him.

“I know something about it,” he concedes, and she laughs. “Will you come to Minas Tirith then?”

“To experience life in your barracks?” He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the tent pole, and she wonders if he might want to experience life in the barracks with her. “I’ll make the journey, but I suspect you won’t like what I’ll have to say there.” 

“Why?” 

“You’re being soft, even now. I think — and my brother will undoubtedly agree — that you need to strike while the iron is hot, and preferably before there are many more incursions to _my_ country.”

“It’s not so simple,” he says, and she’s growing bored with hearing him say it. She stands from his cot.

“My lord, I suspect we will continue to disagree until an external force intervenes. The ride to Minas Tirith is so long, I suggest that, out of diplomatic courtesy, we focus on the things we agree on.” She lifts her tunic to start untying her breeches.

He takes her point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i forcing éowyn back into minas tirith just to shamelessly do gender angst? yes! 
> 
> a note on éowyn's thoughts on elfhelm — i know in rotk it's implied that dernhelm and elfhelm's agreement was about merry being allowed to ride with them, but i literally cannot imagine elfhelm speaking to dernhelm and not realising exactly who it is that he's talking to.
> 
> as an aside that's not totally relevant to this story, i have an abiding hatred for the blushing virgins nonsense that gets bandied about with a lot of lotr fics. the victorians have totally poisoned our minds re: sex and the middle ages, and i refuse to let them win! so you will probably see that my éowyn and faramir are less cloyingly virginal than other interpretations.


	3. Chapter 3

The ride to the capital is far more painful than the ride up to their scouting mission, and by the third day she’s amazed that her arm hasn’t been ripped from its socket entirely; she’s lost most of the feeling in it and what she _can_ feel isn’t good. Her mood also isn’t improved by her having to go out of her way to avoid Faramir so they don’t flout propriety too openly. She speaks little, except to Elfhelm, and then only quietly and in very short bursts.

Anórien, for its part, looks as though it is recovering well. The grass is verdant, the settlements look well maintained and well fed, and there is no indication that the roads had borne the weight of the armies of Men mere months ago. It’s very different to the Eastemnet, both in that it has recovered almost completely whereas Rohan has barely begun that process, but also in that nature is tamed here, the grass planted purposefully and the trees counted and maintained. There is no ruggedness in this part of the world, it is all a testament to the control of Men, right down to the White City, carved from a hill at the base of Mount Mindolluin.

They ride directly for the sixth circle of Minas Tirith, where Éowyn vaults off Windfola with an agonised grunt. She instructs Elfhelm to garrison the men in the barracks of the Knights of Dol Amroth, then makes for the Houses of Healing. Faramir follows, though she shoots him a warning glance — they are _quite_ obviously unchaperoned.

He ignores her warning.

Inside, the Healers ply her with pain reduction draughts and sit her on a bench by the window, letting her look out at the Pelennor Fields as they work. They’d ridden in from the northwest, so she hasn’t yet been able to see them, and she’s taken aback by how quickly they’ve recovered. The scars of war seem mostly gone, and the farmstreads appear to have returned in more or less good health. The fields look nothing like the image of them that is seared into her memory from the morning when Faramir had kissed her on the garden wall in front of the entire world and she had promised to spend the rest of her life with him. It feels like an age ago, as if she was so young and naive then. 

Faramir is shooed out as a young healer helps to remove Éowyn’s overclothes, and she shakes her head at the Gondorian prissiness. He has watched blood and gore spill from her arm for three days now, what harm could come of him seeing her breasts? 

The healer is nice, chats just the right amount to distract Éowyn from her upset but not so much that she’s expected to engage in earnest. She tells her what Éowyn already knows, that she got incredibly lucky in her injury, that it will take several months at least for it to heal, but that it _will_ heal. She slips a looser tunic over Éowyn’s head, keeping the sleeve pushed up so she can continue her work. When Faramir is allowed back in, he sits once more by her side, his hand brushing hers but doing little else. 

Not ten minutes later, a seneschal announces a new arrival. Éowyn groans.

“I will not rise, your grace,” Éowyn says, nodding towards her brutalised arm. The King of Gondor and Arnor grins. 

“Nor would I expect you to.” He takes her hand from the bench and kisses it (a remarkable sign of deference given her mood), and then turns to address his steward. “For the sake of clarity: I sent you into the field on a simple mission, that your mind might be clear of thoughts of your intended, and… you shot her.” 

“As a matter of technicality, _I_ did not shoot her,” Faramir responds testily. 

“Oh, ever the responsible leader, my love,” Éowyn says, sucking in air quickly through her teeth as the healer removes debris from the entry wound that the field medic had not managed to get. “I am surprised at you, your grace, that a small band of criminals might scare you out of contacting your closest neighbouring ally.” 

The healer drags out a particularly large piece of wooden shrapnel, and Éowyn cries out, pounding her fist into the bench. Both men flinch. 

“You are here now, so perhaps our strategy has worked. I am very happy to have you here among us again, Lady Éowyn,” there is no sarcasm to his voice, but she would rather there was. “I have come at the behest of my wife, who seeks your company at dinner tomorrow eve, and requests that I learn where you are lodging during your stay in the City?” 

“In the barracks of the Swan Knights with my men.” Faramir makes a choking noise beside her, and she pointedly ignores him. “Please express my deepest gratitude to the Queen, I will happily join you.” 

“And you, Faramir?” Faramir nods, and Aragorn seems satisfied, taking his leave quickly and quietly, his decades as a Ranger have obviously not yet left him. 

The healer presses a salve to Éowyn’s wound and starts bandaging her arm, and Éowyn begins to remind herself what it means to be in this city, the spurious rules and regulations she must adhere to, _especially_ the rules that prevent her and Faramir from being around one another too long unsupervised. 

“Is the Prince of Dol Amroth in the City?” She asks and Faramir looks up at her, his face soft. 

“Only Amrothos has left, rejoining Elphir and Elúriel to help with Alphros.” Éowyn hums in acknowledgement, she is unsurprised that the more scholarly of the Prince’s children has found an excuse to flee Minas Tirith. 

The healers dismiss Éowyn with a salve, bandages, and a warning to not overexert herself until the wound has properly scabbed. She offers empty promises, and escapes into the sunlight with Faramir on her heels. She throws her head back, shaking her hair out and breathing in the warm air. The tension in her head begins to clear, and she wills relaxation into her aching muscles.

“Yet again I arrive in Minas Tirith in blood-spattered men’s clothing. What must your peers think of me and this habit I am forming?” 

“I am sure the men of the city will be giving serious consideration to buying breeches for their wives.” She casts her gaze over her shoulder at him and is taken aback by the intensity with which he is looking at her. An image flashes through her mind of Baldwine’s stories, and briefly she wonders if there are any empty stables nearby. Faramir breaks the moment, however, by tilting his head and speaking, “My uncle will likely be in his townhouse. Shall we pay him a visit?” 

They do not walk arm in arm, and Éowyn is careful to keep the hood of her mantle drawn close to her face. He laughs at her and tells her she is overestimating how much he is watched, but she has met the sharp end of the gossip mongers' words before, and she has no interest in repeating the mistakes that led her there the first time. 

Imrahil is indeed home, and he welcomes her in with a jovial hug and kiss to the cheek. Before he disappears into his study after Faramir, he calls Lothíriel down, who tumbles into Éowyn with glee, kissing her face and declaring that her presence is the greatest surprise she could have hoped for.

Lothíriel pulls her up the stairs into her chamber, begging her for news on her life, and in turn telling Éowyn all that has happened since last they met. When they are both breathless from speaking, Lothíriel jumps to her feet, noticing — apparently for the first time — that Éowyn’s clothes are covered in mud and gore.

“You won't consent to a gown now, will you?” Lothíriel says with a knowing smile.

“Not for now, though thanks to my limitless capacity for folly I have agreed to dine with the King and Queen tomorrow evening, so I suppose I ought to borrow something then.” The Swan Princess narrows her eyes at Éowyn (who offers a meek shrug), but seems to think better of pressing the issue and slips out of the room, to return moments later with a clean, white muslin tunic and breeches. 

“They might be slightly long, but Erchirion has always had slim shoulders.” She helps her out of her sullied garments and into the clean ones, pausing to run her fingers along the scars on Éowyn’s forearm where the Black Captain’s morning star had shattered her arm. Lothíriel makes quick work of braiding her hair, and soon they are retracing their steps down the main staircase, where Faramir and Imrahil are chatting casually. 

“Good afternoon, cousin!” Lothíriel says cheerily, and then adds in a fantastically mischievous voice: “I’ve been admiring your handiwork.” 

Faramir sighs in exasperation. “Yes, it is true that I have maimed my future wife, we are all very amused.” Éowyn and Lothíriel struggle to hold back their laughter. 

Éowyn retrieves her sword belt from its position by the door and, with a quick kiss to Lothíriel’s cheek, she, Faramir, and Imrahil set off for the Citadel. Imrahil takes Éowyn’s arm in his, keeping Faramir on his opposite side. He tells her about the shock the nobles suffered when they heard that _their_ Lord Steward would be married first in the barbarian capital of Edoras. It is, naturally, the perfect thing to say to her, and Éowyn soon laughs gleefully. 

The Citadel is much changed since she last saw it: scaffolding now clads the eastern side of it to repair fractures in the stonemasonry, and massive blue banners adorned with the White Tree of Gondor fly from the highest floors. The forecourt gardens, too, seem to be in better order, with bright new flowers speckling the fresh-tilled soil. It is a far cry from the stolid fortress left by Denethor. An improvement, she thinks. 

While Faramir sends a page to the King and a messenger for Elfhelm, Imrahil and Éowyn work to spread a map across the table in the council room. She adds stone markers to show the locations she has confirmed bandit encounters, and uses a woollen thread to identify the route she has been empowered by Éomer to take. 

“You have covered much ground,” Imrahil compliments, folding his arms across his chest as he peers at the map. “I admit, I am brimming with envy, I long to ride through the wilds again.” 

Éowyn exhales, knowing that he of all people will not misinterpret her words, “My last hurrah before marriage.” 

Imrahil smiles knowingly at her. “You will find Ithilien quite different to Minas Tirith. More to your liking, I think. Emyn Arnen in particular makes a stark contrast to the City.” She runs out of time to respond when Elfhelm enters the room, looking completely unfazed by the grandeur of the building. He dips a swift bow to the Prince, and then sidles in next to Éowyn. 

“The men are boarded and have been set free on the City. May the Valar help the local barkeeps.” Éowyn laughs, and then remembers herself, turning back to Imrahil.

“I have forgotten to thank you for your hospitality — I couldn’t sanction leaving my men in the hands of civilian lodgings.” Imrahil waves his hand in acknowledgement of her thanks and greets Elfhelm in the traditional manner of warriors. She forgets, from time to time, that despite their myriad cultural differences, the bonds of war have forged many friendships across the border. 

The King arrives not ten minutes later and Éowyn, beginning to feel the tugs of guilt for her brusque greeting earlier, bows formally to him, smiling at the twinkle in his eyes when she looks up to him. Faramir takes his place beside him and a strong but unidentifiable emotion crashes over her — pride, maybe? Excitement? Whatever it is, she’s suddenly very taken by the sight of her strong, handsome beloved standing in a place of equal power to the King of the Reunited Kingdoms. A warmth spreads through her chest as she realises that soon she, too, will bear that equal position, if not in etiquette than at least in influence. 

This is her first time seeing Aragorn and Faramir work together like this, and their fluidity is impressive. They behave like two arms of the same body, seamlessly picking up where the other leaves off, Faramir’s imposing intellect bolstering Aragorn’s decades of practical experience. She wonders if all Kings and their Stewards work this well together, or if Gondor is particularly fortunate in this age. 

She takes the lead in explaining their mission and encounters, stopping occasionally to allow Elfhelm room to parenthesise his own interpretations and recollections. She tells them about her sighting of a figure on the eastern banks of the Anduin, and then reddens when Aragorn asks how she had the occasion to be so close to the far banks. She avoids Faramir’s eyes as she admits to having stopped to bathe herself, thinking then that it would not be for nearly a week more until she would reach Aldburg and civilised lodgings. 

“Ah, but you underrated the ability of my Steward to reel you back into these walls,” Aragorn says casually, looking at the map. She risks a glance up at Faramir and sees that he is staring down at her with the same intensity he’d looked upon her with outside the Houses of Healing. She swallows thickly. “Our reports match yours, though we have recorded skirmishes as far north as the Brown Lands — even the King of the Woodland Realm has expressed his concern.” 

Éowyn gasps. “The Elves endure?” Aragorn smiles kindly at her, the light of history bright in his eyes. 

“They do, though it is likely they will pass into the Undying Lands within your lifetime.” It does not escape Éowyn’s notice that Aragorn refers to _her_ lifetime — even as the youngest in the room, and even if she lives to die of old age, she will likely be preceded in death by only Elfhelm and Imrahil. It is a terrible thought, one that has long consumed her thoughts of her life with Faramir, but she stows it away for now, instead far more interested in this new information about the Elves. If she’d known the Elves yet lingered in Mirkwood, she would have lobbied her brother to send her there, if only that she might once see an Elven kingdom before they passed into history. 

“It is that northerly presence that gives us pause,” Faramir continues for Aragorn. “Given our new intelligence, it appears that whatever we’re dealing with is far better organised and resourced than we’d anticipated.” Éowyn crosses her arms on instinct, then, overcome by searing pain in her arm, hisses and puts her arm back to her side. Nobody comments on it, and for that she is grateful. 

“How have you tracked the bandits before now?” Elfhelm asks, running his fingers across the path of the Anduin on the map.

“Our garrison at Cair Andros reported suspicious movements in the outlying lands. We felt that it was necessary to send a discreet reconnaissance force.” Éowyn laughs, a full-throated belly laugh, and Faramir averts his eyes. “Admittedly there were some lapses in our discretion,” he concedes. 

“Oh, indeed.” She bends over the table, placing her forearms on the map along Lebennin. “I see no pattern to these reports,” she murmurs, “except that they are along the Anduin, but even then, they seem to cross into the Mark with ease. Why provoke Rohan if the qualm is with Gondor?” 

“Lady Éowyn, have you the brooch you found on the bandit?” Faramir asks. 

She reaches to her sword belt, where her gloves are secured, and extracts the quartz pin from inside. She tosses it haphazardly onto the table, refastening her gloves to her belt. Aragorn reaches out for the brooch, turning it over in his palm and holding it up to the light. 

“What do you make of it, my lore master?” Aragorn asks Faramir after a moment’s silence. 

“Nothing yet, in truth, but I have yet to consult any histories.”

Aragorn smiles, “Which I am sure you are very eager to do. Take what time you need, but to avoid wasting our esteemed guests’ time, let us decide our paths forward.” Aragorn leans forward over the map, and the rest follow, each pointing out important tactical strongholds that might allow them greater oversight into the actions of the bandits without arousing any more suspicion. Each time Éowyn suggests simply crushing the bandits on their supply runs, she is rebuffed. Eventually she realises with a pang of frustration that she will just have to convince Éomer instead, these men of Gondor are too set in their timid ways.

Within the hour, they’ve agreed on six key spots along the Anduin and in the Wold to garrison scout patrols, with an agreement that all missives sent between the capital cities of the two kingdoms would be sent with an armed guard. From the behaviour of the King and the Steward, it is clear to Éowyn that they think the problem is emanating from within _their_ borders and are keen to do away with it with little fanfare. 

“Will Éomer King consent to stationing a troop at the Mering Stream?” Imrahil asks, pointing to the one area of reported bandit incursions that they have yet to deal with. Éowyn places her hand on her hip, rubbing the bone that protrudes there. 

“It is not ideal, given the extent of the rebuilding work along the Eastfold, but I suppose it can’t be avoided. I’ll administer it, if needs must.” 

“Is it appropriate for the sister of the King to embroil herself in border skirmishes?” Aragorn asks, a brow raised in scepticism. Éowyn glares at him.

“No less appropriate than appointing the son of the Steward Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien,” she bites back. “Besides, she is embroiled already, and we have learned long ago that the Lady of Rohan’s idle hands spell trouble for those around her.” Next to Aragorn, Faramir fails to mask the amusement in his eyes. 

“It’s settled then. I will write to the King of Rohan without delay. Prince Faramir, please commission the required garrisons and uncover what you can about that symbol; Prince Imrahil, I leave the _discreet_ patrol of Anórien in your capable hands; and if the Lady and her Marshal will make our case to the King upon their return, then I suspect we shall clear this issue up afore the close of autumn.”

Once the King takes his leave, Imrahil asks Elfhelm if he wants to try the newest vintage from Dol-en-Ernil and guides him from the room, leaving Éowyn and Faramir comfortably alone. In the Citadel, at least, they will be safe from prying eyes. Faramir offers her his arm, but instead she tangles their fingers together, pulling him from the room. 

Faramir steers her to the forecourt and she thinks that he is very politely trying to send her on her way — but then no, he’s pulling her away from the Citadel gates and toward the end of the walkway that overlooks the city. The last time she was here was the coronation of King Elessar and the return of the host, where she had stood before all of Gondor as the symbol of Rohan. The thought still triggers anxiety in her. 

She presses her hands against the smooth stone of the wall, turning away to look once more upon the White Tower of Ecthelion. Faramir looks at the Pelennor, no doubt using that brilliant mind of his to catalogue all that still needs to be done for it. The smell of burning wood wafts through the air from the scaffolding, and she wonders at what point in the time since they’ve last seen each other that he has stopped wincing at the scent of fire. 

“I’m surprised you accepted the Queen’s invitation,” he says, and her brows shoot up to her hairline.

“And _I_ am surprised that you are choosing to start a fight with me now,” she says defensively. “Do you trust me so little?”

“I trust you with my heart,” he says simply, and she immediately feels guilty for jumping to conclusions. “But I also know yours, and I know that tomorrow will stir feelings that you were probably not expecting to face until we wed.” She counts the branches on the White Tree of Gondor, feeling his eyes on her but not yet able to return his gaze. 

Their love is based on honesty, often brutal honesty, forged at the end of days when their secrets brought them together. She can hardly castigate him for not confiding in her in one breath and then reserve her own thoughts in the next. 

“How do you find their relationship?” 

He breathes out slowly. “Different to ours. Neither better nor worse, but different.” He pauses and she can practically hear the cogs whirring in his head. “Theirs is a relationship of equals, but of separate equals. The Queen maintains her realm and the King his. They share a home, and their love for each other — and we must not underrate that — but they share little else.” 

Éowyn nods, understanding the subtext. The King might love his Queen, but she would never stand beside him in the council room and draw plans for battle. She turns to look out at the Pelennor with Faramir. Side by side, as in all things. 

“You are right that I am nervous.” She slides her fingers over his. “But not for the reasons you are expecting, I think.” 

Silence settles around them, save for the mallet blows of the workers on the scaffolding. The air is warm and dry, disturbed only by a gentle breeze that swirls the loose hairs around her cheeks. He is giving her the time she needs to figure out her words, and she is making the most of it. 

“I feel keenly my perceived inferiority when I am in the City,” she says after a long while. “We are viewed as the lesser Men of Middle-Earth, and I am seen as the moral failing of those lesser Men. I know what is said about me, I have heard the whispers.” He tangles their fingers together. 

A turtle-dove skims the wall some two hundred feet below them. She watches it swoop and dive lower and lower until it disappears into the snarl of buildings below. 

“The Queen is a foreigner too, but of a superior race to mine.” She sighs, realising how petty her concerns are. “None would question why a man of noble birth might love her.”

“Whereas they would with you,” Faramir completes. She nods. “They do not like the Queen either.” 

Éowyn’s shocked silence reigns supreme for several seconds. 

“They grovel before her, but she is aware of her rank and does not alter her manner to suit them.” He looks at her expectantly, and she knows that he is encouraging her to follow the Queen’s lead in this regard. But Éowyn is no Elf queen, their circumstances are _very_ different. 

The sun is beginning to settle beyond the mountains, and it has been a long day. There are things she ought to do to prepare for the journey back to Rohan, but she’s minded to skip them all and go straight to sleep.

She pushes away from the wall, taking Faramir’s forearm between her hands, pulling him with her as she walks backwards away from the edge. 

“I am glad you are here, even in less than ideal circumstances.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. 

“When I proposed this mission to my brother, he told me you would not approve of it.” Faramir’s stoic demeanour cracks, and he laughs, shaking his head as he looks down at the ground. Éowyn smiles too. 

“He thinks me a more sensible man than I am.” 

She pulls him close. “He admires you enough to delude himself into thinking you agree with him on everything.” 

“Will you really board in the barracks?” He asks as they approach the opposite side of the forecourt. His tone is even, but there’s a rush of relief as he says it that tells her he’s been waiting to ask her for a long while.

“Would you not?” 

He tilts his head, as if in thought. “I would, but perhaps not if I knew I had a better bed awaiting me.”

“I can hardly ask the Prince to turn around a room for me with so little notice,” she says, pulling her hood up once more. 

“I wasn’t referring to my uncle.” His voice is low, steady, treacherous. She looks at him and laughs. 

“And they say _I’m_ the barbarian.” 

#### ≿————- ❈ ————-≾

Two hours of lying on her cot have brought her no closer to sleep, and she’s starting to feel cranky at her body’s failure to do what is objectively in its own best interest. 

With a bitter sigh, she swings her legs off the cot, sliding her feet back into her boots. If she knows Faramir at all, which she does, he’s probably still awake. She won’t stay the night, but she could do with some conversation until she’s ready to try sleeping again. (And whatever else he’s interested in doing…)

The barracks of the Knights of Dol Amroth are two circles beneath Faramir’s townhouse, which should only take her twenty minutes to reach, but if he’s finally moved into the official Steward’s residence, it could take her nearly ten minutes longer. The streets are quiet, though, so either way she should be able to make it there without much hassle. 

She doesn’t bother drawing her hood up, enjoying too much the soft nighttime breeze and the feeling of freedom. The only people left in the streets are those preparing to stumble home from the taverns, almost exclusively people who won’t recognise her (though she does keep her eyes out for Erchirion, just in case).

The clientele of the taverns in the fifth circle — and even the taverns themselves — become more dour, as though they’re drinking for business and not for joy. It’s one of her least favourite parts of Minas Tirith, that the joy seems to evaporate with each successive level of the city. She knows that that can’t be entirely true, that it’s probably just that each class of people expresses happiness in different ways, but the change in outward appearance is so stark, she struggles to keep it from affecting her own mood. 

The late-night stragglers thin out the closer she gets to the stairway to the sixth circle, until she emerges into the most exclusive part of the City to deafening silence. Lights are on in houses throughout, but all the curtains are tightly drawn across the windows, and she’s left with nothing to do but keep her nose down and speed her walking pace. She pulls her hood up, mourning the loss of the cool air around her head, but here, of all places, she doesn’t want to be recognised. The lights are on in Faramir’s townhouse, and the ceremonial guard stationed outside has dwindled to just one.

He knocks at the door for her, his face revealing nothing. It’s an affect of the guards that she’s decided she hates; they all know they’re passing judgement on her, they should at least be willing to make light of it. An aggrieved-looking porter answers the door, obviously prepared to shoo her away until Éowyn lifts her hood away from her face. The porter quickly schools his features into deferential neutrality, and beckons her in. Gone are the days of her being expected to wait on the front step until Faramir consents to her entry, it seems. 

“The Lord Steward is in his study, my lady,” the porter says after closing the door. Éowyn sheds her mantle, handing it off before dismissing the attendant and taking the stairs two at a time. The runner carpet has been changed since she was last here to something warmer and richer. She feels a pang of pity for whatever maid is responsible for cleaning this more extravagant weave, for as dull as the last one had been, at least it was simple enough to require only simple maintenance. She’ll have to re-convince Faramir of the merits of simplicity when they finally make for Emyn Arnen. 

She wraps her knuckles gently against the door of the study. No answer comes. She tries again, harder now, and waits with bated breath — maybe the door is more soundproof than she remembers. After a minute of silence, she curls her fingers around the door handle, noiselessly pushing it open. 

The study is exactly as she remembers, a hurricane of papers and books, the messiness required to keep his mind so well organised. She looks to his desk, sees nothing but stacks of papers and folios, and then turns to look down the room, casting her eyes towards one of the sofas in the room. 

Her heart sings.

He looks so much younger when he sleeps, as if the years of disciplinarian military and political service have been wiped from his history. One hand is tucked behind his head, the other holding a book to his chest; one leg is bent on the floor, the other bent on the sofa. Dark hair spills across his face, obscuring his placid features. His chest rises and falls surely, steadily, resolutely. A portrait of serenity. 

She closes the door as quietly as she can, and carefully pads to him, kneeling beside his head to pull the book from his hand and set it on the sideboard. She twines her fingers into his, and presses delicate kisses to his eyelids, his cheeks, the top of his nose. 

“I knew you would not stay in the barracks,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering open. She laughs breathily. 

“You speak too freely, my lord, I might have stayed with you had you not just thrown down the gauntlet,” she kisses the corner of his mouth and then nuzzles into the warmth of his neck. 

“Then you visit me for other reasons?” He returns her kisses, pressing them to her brow, the highpoint of her cheekbone, the tip of her ear. 

“Conversation, my love. I am ill at ease this night.” He pulls himself up to a seated position, kissing her fingers, palms, and wrists. She loves him best when he is stuck between sleep and wake, it’s when he is at his most affectionate, as if trying to wrap her, too, in the warm cloak of sleep through his caresses. She kisses his knee, then rests her cheek on it, running her hands up and down his leg, feeling the smooth, hard muscle there. 

“How might I put you at ease?” His voice comes from low in his chest, and it sets her insides aflame. But she has come here in earnest for conversation, and she isn’t planning on being so quickly reduced to exactly what the gossip mongers say she is. She is reminded of her brief conversation with Imrahil earlier that day, and stands, moving to the map that hangs beside Faramir’s desk. 

“Tell me of Emyn Arnen, and what our life should be like there.” He joins her, pulling her hair loose from her braid as he tells her about the bubbling creaks and lush meadows, the soft hills and tranquil forests. In his hands now, Ithilien sounds like an earthly paradise, so different from the site of unimaginable horror and brutality that she knows it to have been during the war. She is overawed by his ability to look past what must be crushing memories to see the optimism of the future.

He drags his fingertips across her scalp when he explains the work that is being done to build them a new house, and she lets out a soft moan. He stops his explorations to laugh at her and kiss her temple. “It will be a wonderful place to raise children,” she says wistfully.

“When shall we have children?” he asks, and Éowyn is overcome by coquettishness. 

“Oh, not for a while yet, I think.” Faramir’s hand stills on her head.

“And why is that?” She turns to face him, pressing a sloppy kiss to his jawline. 

She whispers, “I have other plans,” and then drops to her knees.

#### ≿————- ❈ ————-≾

His capable fingers ghost over her breast, and she giggles, rolling her head to kiss him once more. It’s a lazy one, they are both too swept up in their own bliss to do more than bring their lips together, more of a gesture at a kiss. 

“You haven’t told me what the forged letter said, how you knew it wasn’t Éomer.” She brushes his fringe from his eyes — he needs a haircut. 

He kisses her shoulder. “It asked that we send a battalion to the Undeeps, we knew he would not be so wasteful with his resources.” Her lips press together into a firm line. The Undeeps lie across the Anduin from the Wold, one of the few spots along the great river that is easily crossed. There are forts in the Wold to defend against crossings, built many hundreds of years ago and deserted by her uncle when Gríma’s madness had claimed him. Rohan’s borders are weak there. 

“Why did you not send men anyways to draw the threat out?” 

He sighs. “You know why.” Eventually, he will see the logic in her reasoning. He draws delicate circles across her hips. 

“I meant what I said,” she whispers, and then, when his finger dips between her legs, she gasps. 

“That you will return to the barracks?” He slides one long finger inside her, then sucks at her nipple, and she decides that he is by far and away the more barbaric of the two of them. If only she could tell those babbling Gondorian fools what he does to her when given half the chance, they might never again look at _her_ as the wild one. 

“That I will —.” Her speech is choked off when he teases her ear lobe with his teeth. Goosebumps rise on her thighs. _Cruel man._

She tries again, “That I will return —,” but he crooks his fingers inside her and her vision goes white. She grinds down against his hand, eager and wanton and _desperate_. He laughs at her. She’ll make him pay for it.

He’s pumping his finger languidly, like they have all the time they both know they don’t have. Every pleasure receptor in her body is crying out, but she cannot let his challenge go unanswered, so she tries again. 

“That I will return to the —,” he kisses her, hot and needy. _Cheater._

The feeling of another finger inside her — stretching her, exploring her, driving her closer and closer to the point of return — is too important right now, the only important thing in the world. He is murderously slow, building her pleasure as though it’s his own kingdom, tearing breathy cries from her lips. 

His tongue traces a circle around her nipple, his thumb mimicking the gesture between her legs, and she arches her back, crying out in frustration. Her eyes fly open, and he’s watching her with such an intense expression, his eyes almost black his pupils are blown so wide, that his face alone almost pushes her over the ledge.

He’s smirking, not the understated, wry smile he wears when the whole world is watching him, but the pointed, daring smirk he wears when he knows he’s making her crazy. She clenches her fist, nails cutting into the soft skin at her palm, and tries to push the overwhelming pleasure to the back of her mind, focusing herself on her task. 

“That I will return to the barracks,” she grits out. He drives a third finger into her and her whole body explodes. 

#### ≿————- ❈ ————-≾

The rug burns on her back chafe under the weight of her tunic and cloak, and she’s not looking forward to climbing back into her cot, caught between irritating the friction burn or straining her arm. She still smiles, though keeping her eyes glued to the cobbles as she dashes out of the light of Faramir’s townhouse. Her body moves quickly, but her brain is tired — sleep will come easily, even if it comes uncomfortably.

Tomorrow she will have to rise early, begin making preparations for the return journey to Edoras, and she will have to impose herself on Imrahil’s hospitality yet again to borrow a gown from Lothíriel. And then she will have to dine with the King and Queen of Gondor and Arnor, and hold her head high, like everything about this isn’t designed to kill her. If she survives that, she will have to leave Minas Tirith the very next day and return to Edoras, where she will be separated from Faramir for _three_ entire months. 

She’s so consumed by her woes, that she misses a man stepping out from the alley until she collides with her shoulder, sending her bouncing backwards. 

“Mind your step, you —!” the man begins, voice haughty and indignant. “Oh, forgive me, Lady Éowyn!” Éowyn stares at the man before her, and feels a wave of regret wash over her. 

“Lord Astron.” She steadies herself, pulling her hood from her head. “The fault is entirely mine, it seems I was too captivated by my own worries.”

“I had not realised you had returned to Minas Tirith! We thought you lost to us until after your wedding,” Astron smiles at her, smarmy as ever. 

“You were right, I had not expected to return so soon, but I was waylaid during my duties along our shared border and required an audience with the King.”

“Come now, my good lady, I am no stranger to the romances of youth, I understand what really drew you here!” His voice is jovial, but his eyes flick to a point up the street behind her, and she blanches. 

“Ah, no, it is not as it seems, I merely suffered from sleeplessness and have been wandering to clear my thoughts.” 

“Indeed,” Astron says, sounding in no way convinced. At least she made the effort. “You are staying with the fair Prince of Dol Amroth, I presume?” Éowyn starts, realising that this is not someone who will understand why she has chosen to sleep in the barracks.

“I am, yes.” Astron offers her his arm, and she takes it. Her eyelids droop, the sleepiness is beginning to hit her very, very hard. 

“Tell me, what business did the Lady of Rohan have at our borders?” 

“I was dispatched to survey reports of bandit attacks which appear to be moving in from Gondor.” Imrahil’s townhouse is on the opposite side of the circle to Faramir’s, this is going to be a _very_ long walk.

“Bandits! My, it seems this war has not solved all of our problems.” 

“Apparently so, and our borders are more permeable than ever” she stifles a yawn. “Inquiring minds must know: what brings you out of doors at such a late hour, my lord?” Astron is silent for a long moment, the sound of their boots against the cobbles the only noise between them.

“During the war, nonessential imports to the City ceased very quickly, leaving substantial buildups in Anórien. I have been working long hours to try to clear those blockages, and suffice it to say that filing paperwork in the Citadel has become a round-the-clock occupation for me as of late.”

“My husband-to-be suffers similarly. I fear that I will hardly see him at all while I am in the City for he is so busy!” She knows as soon as she’s finished speaking that she’s overplaying her hand, but mercifully he doesn’t remark on it.

“How long will we be graced by your presence? Will you join us Friday for our Lammas festivities?” Imrahil’s townhouse comes into view, and she tries to pick up the pace. 

“Alas I cannot, I leave in three days’ time for Aldburg and I am very eager to return to the place of my birth.” 

He painstakingly describes to her all the events she’ll be missing, taking great care to remind her that the former Lord Steward had been a great patron of the Lammas celebrations. Had he been the sole benefactor for all art in Arda, still she would not think a single kind thought of Denethor, so she stays her tongue, nodding politely and humming in acquiescence at the appropriate moments. 

Outside Imrahil’s home, she realises that she’ll need an excuse as to why she won’t be entering the house. She stares at the door lamely for a moment, her tired brain clutching at straws. 

“My lady, if I am not imposing myself, I should be very glad if you could join my wife and I for dinner two days hence,” he says, breaking the awkward silence. She resigns herself to not having an excuse to decline. 

“I will very happily join you. Thank you for escorting me, my lord, but I shall leave you here so that I might use the garden door. I shouldn’t like to wake any of my hosts!” Astron regards her for a moment, but seems to decide his concerns are not worth pursuing. 

He takes her hand with a flourish, and presses his lips to it. Éowyn cringes, praying to all the Valar that he does not smell the various bodily fluids that have passed over it this evening. When he is done with his spectacle of etiquette, she scampers around the side of the house, moving into the darkness until she is certain she can no longer be seen.

She waits. Several minutes pass, and then she hears him retreat from the door. She holds her breath, watching the shadow of his figure disappear up the street, mercifully in the opposite direction to the stairwell she needs to reach. 

She waits several _more_ minutes, pulls her hood back over her hair, and then breaks out into a sprint, not stopping until she arrives out of breath and half asleep at the barracks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't follow the news in the uk (and you'd be right not to — it's dreadful here), a woman was recently abducted and murdered by a police officer. it's been a truly horrendous week to be a woman in this country, so i've gone running into the escapism of our beloved shieldmaiden. if you see a bit of my neuroses about Everything slipping in, that'll be why!

Sleeping later than she’d intended, she rises not with the sun but with the incessant banging from stonemasons repairing the exterior of the barracks. Her wound has reopened overnight, soaking through her bandages and her tunic. She will have to send Erchirion a new one in apology because this one is surely ruined. 

The same healer who treated her yesterday attends to her today, very kindly saying nothing about the blossoming bruise at her neck, instead choosing to chatter away amiably about the weather as she strips Éowyn’s tunic and small clothes off. She scrubs down her blood-crusted shoulder, and then diligently reapplies a strong-smelling salve. 

The worst part of Éowyn’s insecurities chooses this moment to rear their head: “Do you think this will scar terribly?” Her voice sounds so weak, so childish as she asks. 

“It won’t disappear entirely, if that’s what you’re asking,” the healer replies, hedging her bets. 

“I am to be married in three months, must I alter my gown to account for it?” The healer exhales slowly, eyeing up the wound. 

“It may be visible still, yes.” And then, without missing a beat, “Do you keep silphium?” 

“Silphium?”

“For preventing pregnancy.” Éowyn reddens. 

“We — I —,” she looks down at her bare arms. 

“I’m not here to pass judgement on someone I know by reputation to be among the very best of women,” the healer says gently. “I will arrange to have some sent to the Lord Steward. Ingest the plant’s resin once monthly. You will bleed, but it will stop you falling pregnant.” She rebandages Éowyn in silence, helping her to dress again, and then sending her on her way. 

When Éowyn gets to the Prince Imrahil’s townhouse, Lothíriel is in the courtyard, embroidering a baby blanket under the warm summer morning sun. She smiles when Éowyn arrives, and Éowyn pulls her mantle off, dropping it onto the garden wall. They sit together in silence for a few moments, Lothíriel finishing out the outline of a ship and Éowyn admiring the summertime blooms. 

“Are you ready to talk about this evening?” Lothíriel asks casually. Éowyn stares, caught off guard by her breezy tone, her stomach churning. Her breaths are harder to draw now, and she swallows hard several times before she dares make eye contact with her friend again. 

It’s true that there are elements of this that she hasn’t discussed with Faramir — not because she doesn’t trust him, but because he won’t understand the spirit of them or know how to respond to them. And these are the elements that are probably best trusted to Lothíriel, who will undoubtedly empathise and, if nothing else, continue to care for her even if she doesn’t understand.

She shifts awkwardly on the wall, looking down at her manky riding boots, her borrowed, too-big breeches, and her blood-soaked tunic and surcoat. She looks across to Lothíriel, dressed in a burgundy velveteen gown, her beautiful black hair pulled back into a simple braided updo. They could not look more different, the two of them. 

She sighs, kicking against the wall and looking away from Lothíriel. “I am not prone to self-doubt.” Lothíriel laughs a bright, tinkling laugh.

“No, you are not! And we love you all the more for it.” Éowyn allows herself a smile, still not looking in the other woman’s direction. 

“When I was a young girl — after my parents died — my brother and I were raised by my uncle, who was a kind and loving man, but the only child he had had was a boy, and his wife having died in childbirth, he had no understanding of how to raise a daughter. Save for precious few interventions from concerned women of the Rohir court, in my childhood I was raised no differently to Éomer. Though, naturally, that changed somewhat as I grew older and was made to take up the tasks of the household instead of going out on patrols. Still, I was allowed to train unabated, and I was always talked of in the language of warriors, so I was content.” She gazes at a fountain in the far corner of the garden, remembering those heady days when life had seemed not _so_ apocalyptic. 

“That changed when Gríma arrived, slowly at first — I found that my training swords had been passed off to troops on patrols, or that my uncle had been advised to keep me in the house more often. And soon I came to be described in terms of my beauty, my marriageability. As Saruman’s curse stole my uncle, Gríma became the sole arbiter of what my new life was to be, and what womanhood entailed for me; it was a cage. And he… he —” Her voice chokes off and she looks to the sky, forcing back tears.

“Did you harm you?” Lothíriel asks, her voice a drawn gasp. 

Éowyn shakes her head. “No. Not like that at the very least.” Her thoughts run away from her, images of her childhood flashing before her, turning her cold. “He stole my freedom from me, taught me that I was a woman and that to be a woman was to suffer, to face certain, violent life _and_ death with no means of self defence.” Lothíriel’s face is stony. 

“When the broken Fellowship arrived in Edoras, Aragorn helped to break Gríma’s spell. In that moment, he became everything to me, a man who would liberate me from Gríma and Middle Earth from the Enemy. I had never beheld a man quite like that.” She laughs, reminded of the bitter irony of that day, and looks to Lothíriel, who has paused her sewing. “Faramir stood outside as a matter of diplomatic courtesy. How different my life could have been had he simply defied Greyhame!”   
  
Lothíriel’s face grows stern. “Don’t speak so — if he had, we might not be sitting here today.” Éowyn nods, knowing the truth of her words. 

“I imagined myself in love with Aragorn because I saw freedom in him, but I could not bring myself to speak to him because I was so captivated by him. All the while, I spoke freely and happily to Faramir, who through the beauty of his words and his own limitless misfortune convinced me that men could accept me as I wanted to be accepted. I, a fool, did not once realise that it was _Faramir_ who accepted me, not all men.” 

“And all the while he loved you anyway,” Lothíriel says, smiling.

She laughs. “Yes! But he made the grievous error of being so damned honourable! As you say, though, it was for the best, had I not thought myself in love with Aragorn when the time came to go to war, his rejection of my offer to fight under him might not have provoked the same response.” 

“But surely Faramir would have said the same thing? Convinced you not to fight?” 

Éowyn looks down at her boots, smiling at her past self’s foolishness. “No, he has never attempted to tell me not to do what he knows I will do anyways.” She looks across at the younger woman. “It was with his dagger that I slayed the Black Captain, actually.”

Lothíriel’s face lights up. “How romantic!” Éowyn hums. 

“Yes,” she smiles weakly. “Now, however, I find myself terrified of womanhood once more, and of all that that means, even if I know Faramir loves me as I am. I fear that seeing the King and Queen, the very portrait of a noble and proper love, will make true all of my fears. That Faramir will no longer want a wife who fails in her duty to be a woman, that I will realise that I am not suited for times of peace.” 

Lothíriel says nothing for a moment, just looks at Éowyn with those piercing grey eyes that feel like they see altogether too much. She presses her lips together, looking alarmingly like Faramir when he’s trying to frame a difficult discussion. “I am of the opinion that my cousin loves you without regard for considerations of your sex. I believe there are more similarities between Faramir and Boromir than most are privy to.” Her tone is diplomatic, but Éowyn thinks of her cousin’s fierce love for Gondor’s fallen Captain-General, and she understands. 

Lothíriel lets the silence lay — another habit she has in common with Faramir. Éowyn stares at the ground, worrying her lip between her teeth until Lothíriel stands, wordlessly offering her hands. Éowyn takes them, and they move upstairs, where she is treated to a long, warm bath, after which Lothíriel pulls her hair into increasingly complex braids. Éowyn has always loved people playing with her hair, and, sitting in a plush chair in the sunlight while Lothíriel rakes her fingers through her hair, she happily dozes, letting the line between reality and dream blur. 

Éowyn makes a lazy reference to Lothíriel’s skills with braiding as she picks through Éowyn’s hair. “I’m not skilled enough to hide _that_ ,” Lothíriel gasps, smirking and pointing at the bruise on Éowyn’s neck. She sighs — it had made her dizzy in the moment, but now she resents it deeply. 

“You mean my injury from when I was attacked?”

Lothíriel laughs loudly, “Oh, attacked indeed. If that’s what attacks look like, I ought to volunteer to ride out more often.” Éowyn laughs, absentmindedly running her fingers along the mark. “Try this,” Lothíriel says, pulling all her hair to one side, burying the bruise.

They settle on a white gown, trimmed around the bust and elbows with fine gold embroidery. It masks the bandages that peek out around her décolletage, and briefly Éowyn considers that she might not look so indelicate after all.

“Do you think Fara realised he would be condemning you to white gowns for eternity when he called you the White Lady of Rohan?” 

Éowyn smiles. “Certainly not, he was more concerned with ruining all compliments for me forever.” 

#### ≿————- ❈ ————-≾

Alone for the first time since she woke, Éowyn notices in greater detail the pull of nausea. Her anxieties are very real, but she has survived worse than an informal dinner before. All she has to do is make it through this, and tomorrow she gets to wake up and make a break for freedom again. The setting sun paints fuschias and lavenders across the sky, and she knows that she is early enough that she can allow herself a moment to walk the wall and watch the world below.

The rough stone is warm beneath her fingertips. She remembers how cold the wall had been at the Hornberg all those months ago, how the wind had been like knives, how she had been convinced that they would all die, and how she hadn’t been at all scared. In the waning warmth of this summer’s day and in the nervousness in her stomach, she feels life. She is scared now because she now has something worth losing, that fear tells her there is something in this life worth living for. 

“You look beautiful.” 

She flinches, and then laughs, still gazing at the Pelennor. Fifteen years as a Ranger have made his movements impossibly quiet. “You can’t even see me.” 

“I don’t need to.” 

He’s closer to her now, and she closes her eyes, breathing in slowly. His hands slide softly around her shoulders, unclasping her mantle and pulling it from her head and shoulders. He kisses her exposed neck, and Éowyn considers that Lothíriel’s hairstyling choice is good for more reasons than she’d expected. His fingers tangle with hers, and in the lilac light it feels as though time is moving through molasses, dangerously slow and sweet. He pulls her gently, and at last she faces him. 

He is dressed head to toe in black. It is, of course, the traditional colour of the Steward, but looking at him now, she wonders that the night itself was not invented to compliment him and him alone. She trails her fingers up his sleeve, feeling the soft cloth of his tunic. 

“We’re opposites,” she says simply, knowing that he must have already found a more profoundly romantic way to express it. He blinks, as if coming back to himself. 

“Yes.” He blinks again, and then, in an almost-hoarse voice, whispers again, “You look beautiful.” 

“I have to keep my hair to one side,” she says, lifting it momentarily. He laughs, then offers her his arm. 

She hasn’t been inside the Citadel as a social guest of the King yet, which means she has no idea what to expect on such an occasion. She swallows thickly, listening to Faramir tell her about a new appraisal of a fallen Elven king he’d read earlier that day. It’s not that she’s not interested in what he’s saying, but her eyes suddenly feel very heavy, and her chest is tightening with each subsequent step.

“Breathe,” he whispers, and she does.

A seneschal bows before them as soon as they step through the threshold of the Citadel foyer. 

“My Lord Steward, Lady Éowyn, the King has arranged to receive you in his private apartment.”

“Thank you, Tollaron,” Faramir says with grace. They follow him down several winding corridors until they come upon a massive oak door. The guards stationed in front of it throw it open, and Éowyn forces one more painful breath through her lungs.

“The Lord Steward and Lady Éowyn of Rohan,” the seneschal announces, and Éowyn has been so focussed on watching him that she forgets what she’s meant to be looking at. She digs her nails into the palm of her bad arm, pain radiating up it like a wildfire. She looks up. 

The King stands alone, his face revealing nothing, though she’s certain he senses her shock. Faramir bows, and she curtseys, her eyes darting about the room for more clues as to the Queen’s absence. 

Aragorn beckons them towards a set of sofas at the far end of the room. “The Queen wishes that I convey her apologies, she is presently indisposed,” Aragorn says casually. Éowyn glances at Faramir, wondering if he has understood the same implied meaning she has. 

“Certain queenly duties are, of course, of the utmost priority,” Éowyn chances, narrowing her eyes at Aragorn. He smiles — a wry half smile, but more of a smile than she thinks she has ever seen from him and she knows she is absolutely correct. “My warmest congratulations.” 

Aragorn sits, and Éowyn and Faramir follow, appropriately spaced on separate couches to one another. Faramir’s face is unreadable, but the quirk at the corner of his lips tells her he has finally cottoned on to the subtext. 

“Thank you, my lady, though given the peculiarities of such an event, we are hoping to uphold some level of secrecy for the time being.” His eyes sparkle, and Éowyn wonders if Faramir will be this reserved once she is with child. A blackness covers her heart — will he want to become a father except out of necessity? Or would his childhood mar his desire to have and live children? And for that matter, would _she_ be able to have and love children, she who still lingers in the darkness of war and grief… 

Faramir and Aragorn, obviously unburdened by such concerns, are chatting animatedly when she returns her attention to them, feeling slightly disoriented. She tries to catch up to what they’re saying, but the hazy darkness at the periphery of her mind keeps her from full focus. 

“And what of your social engagements while in the city, my lady?” Aragorn asks, and she blinks. “I feel I owe a debt to your King-brother to chaperone you as best as you will allow me to.” 

“Admittedly I will be doing very little outside taking the company of the Princess of Dol Amroth, though unfortunately I have been forced into taking supper with Lord Astron and Lady Berúthiel tomorrow eve.” The mood in the room abruptly changes, and Faramir and Aragorn share a look. “Is there a problem?” She asks, perhaps a little too harshly for the tone of the evening.

“Astron has been behaving oddly of late, Berúthiel has taken up most of his duties in the City, and he disappears for days at a time, though we know at least he’s not in Anórien,” Faramir says slowly. “We assumed, at first, that he had merely taken a mistress, but they have always been open about their dalliances, so it seemed strange that they would resort to such secrecy now.” 

“And many men must take mistresses, surely that cannot be an indication of guilt in itself.”

“We have little other information to go on, but his movements have been strange. Berúthiel was always a close friend of my father’s, but that in itself isn’t any indication of anything either.” 

She chews the inside of her cheek, they have played these particular cards very close to their chests. “And you suppose he might have the resources to support these raids?” 

“Anórien is one of the wealthier fiefdoms in Gondor, it is certainly possible,” Faramir says, and Aragorn nods.

“Then I will endeavour to confirm for you,” she says, chewing the inside of her cheek.

“Take a chaperone with you then,” Aragorn says. She shakes her head.

“No, certainly not, if he is truly is what we imagine him to be, then it would be best for me to approach him as the lone representative of Rohan in the City. Any Gondorian who might accompany would carry too much political baggage, whereas most of the people here expect me to be prone to treachery anyways.” Aragorn looks at her warily, while Faramir looks like he has already resigned himself to this, crossing his legs and staring out the window. 

“Éomer King will not object to you so muddying the name of Rohan?” Aragorn asks. 

“My brother cares little for the opinions of minor foreign nobles.”

“That is well enough, and I suppose you will out-rank them all in due course, so I won’t bother asking if you are concerned about it.” He looks to his Steward, whose face remains unreadable. “What say you, Faramir?” 

Faramir pushes his fringe back from his forehead, then looks away from the window. “I would prefer to conclude this civilly, so I am inclined to support this plan, even if I do not particularly like it.” 

Aragorn sighs and crosses his arms. “Very well then. I am yet uneasy at assenting to a course of action that might bring harm upon the only sister of my closest ally, so I will here press my privileges to insist that you allow me to station a guard outside Astron’s house — someone you are acquainted with, if it will help ease the slight to your pride,” he adds quickly. 

Éowyn, sensing that she has very little room to negotiate, consents, and soon they move to the dining room, where they eat a better meal than Éowyn has been treated to in weeks, and drink spicy, rich wine from Dol Amroth until her vision blurs and her chest feels warm and light. 

She is unaccustomed to these moments of peace: Edoras has been difficult since her uncle’s funeral. Éomer has adapted to his kingship well, there is no question of that, but Rohan bears the scars of the War of the Ring more obviously than does Gondor, and even though the bulk of the fighting has ceased, their victory at the Black Gate seems fleeting, almost mythical compared to their reality. 

To be here, in the Tower of the Sun, and to feel that her mind can wander freely to the future, to things as big as weddings and children, and to things as small as the soft stretch of skin above the neckline of Faramir’s tunic, or the ghostly white scar under his jaw that she had gotten him to admit was from a snapped bowstring and not a straight razor, as he’d insisted. These are the moments she longs for in Edoras, where her breath comes slowly, unrushed, where she feels neither in nor out of control. 

With the moon high in the sky above them, they depart the Royal Apartments, knotting their fingers together as they aimlessly wander the Citadel. She has always known it to be a quiet sort of place, but she has never seen it so empty, where only a select few guards monitor the corridors. In the muffled part of her mind that still thinks about propriety, she considers that maybe they should not be clinging to each other so openly, even with so few witnesses. 

“It will be a good day when the King and Queen announce their news,” she says, looking through a window at the shadowy landscape outwith. 

“A sign that the world is healing.” She hums in mild agreement.

“And one day you too will become a father,” she chances. 

“Yes,” Faramir leans against the wall, looking at her. “If it is your wish.” She runs her fingers across the mortar at the base of the window. 

“Would it be yours? I thought that it might not be…” she looks away from him, embarrassed by how emotionally open she’s being. 

“Because of my father,” he completes, and she nods. He takes her hand again, squeezing it. “I have always wanted children.” He pauses, his eyes clouding for a moment. “My father loved me, that I know for certain, but he did not _like_ me, and that dislike stemmed from our similarities. I have often thought that my father looked so harshly upon me because I lived free of the pressures of rulership that brought ruin upon his own happiness. That the son who resembled him most closely in manner should be the second son, free to trifle with poetry and the tutelage of a mad old wizard, filled the spot in his heart intended for me with resentment. But even now I cannot bring myself to return that emotion, to resent him so much that I would also deprive myself of happiness. So: yes, I would wish to have children, but as I say, if the White Lady wills it.”

“I would have anything that brings you joy,” she whispers, and means it. 

#### ≿————- ❈ ————-≾

Lothíriel is more sedate when Éowyn seeks her out again, and Éowyn feels uniquely unprepared to deal with it. Her own emotional intimacy is usually coaxed out of her with great effort, something Faramir and Lothíriel herself do with ease. They dance around conversations, never settling on anything for too long, and Éowyn feels worse for her inability to broach the issue, except to occasionally grab her hand and hold it for just a moment longer than is necessary. 

She borrows yet another gown, this time blue trimmed with silver, and straps her dagger belt around her waist — if she is asked, she will simply say it is Rohirric tradition. Lothíriel dutifully pulls her hair up, talking all the while about her most recent letter from Elphir, detailing Alphros’ growth. Éowyn is yet to meet Elphir, though he is expected at their wedding, but from everything she’s heard about him he sounds exactly like his father, a fact which endears him to her greatly. 

Faramir, she learns, has arranged for Erchirion to take the guard shift outside Astron’s house, which, she muses, was an incredibly astute move: she is far less likely to bite his head off than she is any other guard that might have been assigned the task. He departs before her, tucking a book under his arm (“Yes, Éowyn, I _can_ read!”) and telling her exactly where he will wait for her. Twenty minutes after he leaves, the Princess sees her off, whispering a reminder about Berúthiel’s reputation for wickedness. 

Éowyn has been to the Lord and Lady of Anórien’s townhome before, in her earliest days in Minas Tirith, when her status as Faramir’s betrothed had seemed to many to be an uncertain thing, a bond that might be broken if the right offers were made to the new Steward. She had enjoyed very little of her time in that house, though then she had had Lothíriel to use as a crutch when her social capabilities failed her. She is met at the door by a young maid, who gives her a discomfiting once-over before letting her in. The house is exactly as she remembers it: opulent bordering on crass, obsessed with self-references and the status of its occupants. 

The maid takes her through to the courtyard garden — again, unchanged in its lavishness — where she is instructed to sit and wait. Which she does, staring at a fountain that has slowed to barely a drip. Without the same number of trees as the other courtyards she’s been in, this garden traps wet heat, and it clings to her like a cloak. She dabs at her chest with the sleeve of her gown, thinking that, perhaps, she is _not_ of the right temperament for this sort of diplomatic subterfuge.

But at long last, Lord Astron arrives, dressed in a red silk surcoat, his fingers covered in matching golden rings. He greets her with his usual simpering bow, taking her hand and kissing it far too fiercely for her liking.

“My apologies, Lady Berúthiel has been called away on urgent business. I hope that I shall be able to entertain you well enough to make up for her loss.” _Of course_. 

Éowyn smiles tightly, and wishes that the neck on this gown didn’t reveal quite so much of her chest, or at least that her hair were down so she could cover it. Astron calls for wine, and sits beside her on the suddenly too-small bench. 

“Are you looking forward to your wedding?” He asks her, and she realises this is her first opportunity to convince him to show his hand. 

“It depends who’s asking,” she replies calmly as the attendant returns with wine glasses and a bottle. He passes her a glass then raises his own to his lips, drinking slowly, prolonging the time between her words and his. 

“A friend.” Her heart races, and she feels the same twinge of nausea she felt at Dunharrow those many months ago. 

“Then I am excited for the political opportunities it will bring,” she smiles and drinks the wine. It’s full-bodied and bitter, drying her tongue.

“And what would you say if it were not a friend inquiring?” He watches her intently.

“That I am desperately in love and my heart cannot endure the time that stretches between here and my wedding day.” He continues looking at her for a moment, his face drawn, then smiles, looking away. 

“Political marriages are not so shameful,” he says. A rare breeze rustles the foliage around them, raising goosebumps on her arms. 

“Typically they are arranged with competent figures,” she hazards, scanning his face to see if there’s any indication she’s overplayed her hand. 

“The Lord Steward is young, he will grow into his role I imagine,” he says after a moment’s pause. She hums, unsure if his reticence is because he truly is loyal, or if he is still distrustful of her. 

He asks her about her brother, and it is one of the only times she has ever felt uncomfortable talking about him. She fumbles her words trying to hint that Éomer is unhappy with his fellow king, then giggles to cover her misspeech. Her voice sounds so unlike hers and she wishes for an uncomfortable moment to be Dernhelm again, far away from dresses and drawing room politics and the cage of femininity. 

“Your brother is beloved, I hear. His people see him as one of their own.” He is looking at her mouth as he speaks. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up. 

“We do not take kindly to usurpers in Rohan,” she says roughly. Many moons ago, his own wife had said the very same thing about her, and there’s a tart catharsis in reclaiming it for her own purposes. 

“No, nor do some of us in Gondor, though we have also learned that such sentiments ought to be fortified with military might before they are spoken aloud.” Astron gives away too much in his nervousness, he says too much in his desire to appear sincere. It’s a dangerous social habit that Éowyn used to fall into — a habit that she swiftly unlearned when Gríma came to Meduseld. 

“Indeed.” She means to say more, but a servant arrives to announce that dinner is ready. Astron offers her his arm and leads her to a small dining room. The food laid out on the table is somehow as garish as the house itself, and she wonders if this is not an elaborate parody of how the Rohirrim see Gondor. 

They eat, Éowyn markedly less than him owing to the uncomfortable pain in her stomach brought on by her anxiety, and he quizzes her on various topics. He asks her about her wedding plans, she informs him most of it is out of her hands, and he gives her a sympathetic smile. He asks her about her journey through the Eastemnet, she tells him that she much preferred it to Minas Tirith; he asks her about the family of the Prince of Dol Amroth, she replies that they are nauseatingly liberal. 

Astron fills her wine when she makes the mistake of emptying it, and then asks if she will join him in the sitting room. She has watched him drain several sizable glasses of wine so accepts his offer happily, she might yet push information out of him. First, though, she excuses herself to the garderobe, which he tells her is upstairs in the back of the house.

She moves slowly up the stairs, wanting to elongate the time before she has to be around him again, giving herself a chance to calm her palpitating heart. At the top of the stairs, she pauses in front of a small cabinet, placing her hands on the edge, feeling the polished wood beneath her fingers and breathing slowly, careful. She lifts her head, her eyes fluttering open. 

And there, nestled in a small, metal holder, is a symbol she has seen before. The scroll bears no other noteworthy qualities, and looks to be entirely blank except for the single flame inked across it. Her heart pounds, this is it, this is the proof they need. 

She looks down the stairwell behind her, then through the surrounding open doors. Nobody is near. She closes her eyes, counts backwards from ten, then snatches it from its holder, hurrying to the garderobe, where she closes and bars the door, pressing her back against it while she steadies her mind. She needs to smuggle this out of here, but she has no mantle, no bag, nothing to conceal it. 

Her breathing slows, and she reminds herself that there is a ribbon lacing her sleeve that she can remove without compromising the structural integrity of the dress. A ribbon that, she realises as she rucks her skirt up, will wrap only around her thigh if she lays the parchment flat. She heaves a sigh, wishing for not the first time that she could simply wear breeches and belts with pockets so that she might never get caught in a situation like this. 

When the parchment is affixed, she hurries back down to the sitting room, to give a convincing excuse for her breathlessness. There is but one couch in the sitting room, and she almost gives herself a headache trying not to roll her eyes. She sits on it anyways, backing herself as far up to the arm of the couch as she can. He, of course, moves to be far too close to her. 

“How fares Anórien?” She asks, and he drops his arm onto the back of the couch behind her, his fingers almost grazing the back of her neck. She feels ill, but schools her face into comfortable neutrality.

“We have rebuilt well, I am fortunate to be able to focus my attentions on other, more important efforts.”

“That is good to hear, you have always struck me as an eminently capable administrator.” He smiles at her, but says nothing more. She watches him drain more of his wine glass, and decides to be more overt. “Lord Erchirion tells me that he often sees you ride out, I thought it would be into Anórien, but I suppose not?” He tenses, and she knows she’s landed a hit. She relaxes her body into the sofa, sipping her wine. 

“Yes, I have other business to attend to in the Emyn Muil.” 

“The Emyn Muil? I am impressed at how far you are willing to go for business!” He drops his hand to the sofa, unnervingly close to her thigh. She steels herself.

“It is easy, I find. I have fond memories of the Emyn Muil, my Berúthiel and I would ride there when we were younger,” he fingers the fabric of her gown, and her heart thuds against her chest. “We would sleep beneath the stars.” His fingers creep up her leg. The veins in her forehead start to feel tight, as if there’s a cold, damp hand clasping her throat once more.

She blinks and she’s back in Meduseld, using a mirror to check around corners to ensure that Gríma won't block her path, only to turn and have him drape his fingers around her arms like a vise. She feels his clammy skin closing over her throat, the air being forced from her lungs —

“Where in the Emyn Muil?” She chokes out, fighting back the memory. “I am somewhat familiar with the area and am very fond of what I know.”

His fingers dig into her thigh, and her heart stops. If he moves even an inch closer to her knee there is every chance he will feel the parchment tied to her leg. He leans closer to her, his breath hot across her cheek and neck. “The base of Amon Lhaw,” It all falls into place. The silence in the forest around Amon Hen — she hadn’t been the only one scouting that morning. “Before we were married, I _took_ her there,” he whispers directly into her ear, and a lump forms in her throat. “You know, Lady Éowyn, you have a very dangerous figure, it’s no surprise that our famously monkish Lord Steward has laid down all his political capital just to spend one night with you.”

She refuses to think of Faramir right now, focusing instead on the texture of the sofa beneath her fingers, the way her slippers are just slightly too loose for her. She has survived this before, she will survive it now. She is in control. 

“It seems he is sensible in at least one way,” she breathes, then recovers her voice. “Is it not very difficult to reach the Emyn Muil from here? I had thought Nindalf nigh on impassable?” 

His fingers slide into the crease between her thighs and hips, and she has to tamp down on her gag reflex. 

“Oh, very much so, but I have always enjoyed occasionally _slipping into_ Rohan.” His tongue slides across his bottom lip, and she is amazed that he cannot see on her face how ill she feels. 

“Perhaps Rohan will be able to welcome you inside her for my wedding,” she says, wrapping her hand around his fingers. “Where we might be empowered to speak more openly about more important issues.” 

“Indeed?” He raises his eyebrow at her. 

“Indeed, and once we are finished, I am sure there is much my king would like to discuss with you too.” She stands abruptly, dizzy, nauseous, and desperate to cover every inch of her in Dernhelm’s clothing, to shed Éowyn and pretend, for a brief moment, that she does not exist. She wants to slip into her mask of fury, and let it flow from her blade, to wreak righteous damage upon the plagues of men. “My lord, I think I must take my leave lest my simpering hosts send a search party out for me.” Her anger will, of course, have to wait. 

He stands on wobbly knees, and she leads herself out to the entrance hall, wondering if she will make it out the door before retching. He grabs her elbow before she moves to the door and her brain shudders to a mortifying halt. 

“My lady, I admit that I had certain ulterior motives in requesting your company this evening. I now, however, realise that we understand one another in a way I had not fully expected. I will be grateful to speak to you shortly.” She nods tersely at him, then bolts out the door, moving as quickly as she can to where Erchirion told her he’d be.

He’s done a small, unlit alleyway, leaning against the wall with the book in his hands. He looks up when she approaches, nodding in greeting. When she stops in front of him, her chest heaves and she falls into the wall, covering her face with her eyes. She lets out a furious cry.

“That bad?” Erchirion asks quickly, moving to stand in front of her. She quickly shakes her head, though her breathing comes in ragged sobs and she is wound so tight that if anyone so much as looks at her strangely she might put her fist into a wall. “Tell me what ails you,” he tries again, and she removes her hands from her eyes, balling them into fists. 

“It is nothing I cannot handle,” she grits out. “I need only a moment to collect myself.” She squeezes her eyes shut and sees Gríma before her, hears his near-silent footsteps outside the door to her chambers. Next she sees her uncle, old and broken like he had been under Saruman’s curse, except that he is lying prostrate, the Witch-king’s morning star careening into his skull. 

Her eyes fly open. 

“I am ready now,” she says, stepping back out into the street without checking if Erchirion follows. 

“Come, we must go the long way,” he says, gesturing away from Astron’s house. 

“Speak to me even if I cannot talk,” she tells him, and he does. First, he tells her about his book, a survey of the drinking culture of dwarves, then, when that topic is worn out, takes to describing the ships in his father’s service, a topic that might theoretically interest Éowyn, but does little to pull her from her indignation. 

Her chest heaves as she works to stabilise her breathing, but the air can’t come fast enough. They follow the circle around, and she is desperate to be anywhere but here, anyone but herself Guided by Erchirion, she pushes herself forward longer and longer, the agitation jolting every muscle into military reflexes. 

At the gate of Faramir’s townhouse, Erchirion calls out to the guard to knock on the door for them. She has barely a half of a minute to collect herself, before the door is opened by the night porter, who ushers them in without hesitation, gesturing to the formal drawing room. She pushes on the door with both of her hands. It gives way easily, banging on his hinges, and she feels a flash of guilt. 

Faramir and Aragorn are hunched over a book by the fireplace, and both recoil when she bursts through the threshold. Faramir stands, reaching out to take her hand.

“Don’t,” she hisses, then, horrified at her harshness, steps backwards, her face apologetic. “Amon Lhaw,” she blinks hard. “They are based at Amon Lhaw.” Faramir’s face betrays nothing, but his eyes search her body and face for harm. Erchirion gently pushes her onto the sofa, and she begins to pull pins from her hair, letting the complicated braids fall around.

“I’ll wait outside,” Erchirion says quickly, bowing, and disappearing out the door. Faramir returns to his seat on the couch, his eyes steely.

Aragorn speaks first, his voice restrained, “How do you know they are based at Amon Lhaw?” 

“If I asked you to trust me, would you?” She begins unbinding the braids, letting her hair fall loose down her back. 

“Yes,” Faramir says firmly, stepping back to give her more space. “But we need to know the provenance of our information.”

“We have all had to do unsavoury things,” Aragorn follows up, and she glares at him.

“ _I_ did nothing unsavoury, your grace,” she pulls her hair in front of her chest, covering as much of the exposed skin there as she can. “I implied that Éomer and I were unimpressed with your rule, and then convinced him he had been seen riding out of the City — which he seemed surprised by — and I managed to coax his destination out of him. It has sentimental value for him, he told me he and his wife would ride out there together in their youth.” 

“He and his wife used to ride out there?” Faramir asks blankly. Perhaps he is a _bit_ monkish. Aragorn, though, has obviously understood the meaning of the innuendo and has stopped looking quite so closely at Éowyn. 

“Yes. Regardless, it matches with what I experienced at Amon Hen. I thought it strange how quiet the woods were, but excused it as a side effect of the ancient history there. I was wrong — it is clear to me now that we were being watched.” 

“And you are certain he has men there, not just that he was reminiscing?” Aragorn asks solemnly. 

“Yes,” she huffs, then pulls the corner of her skirt up. Aragorn averts his eyes (though scarcely more than excess fabric and a sliver of bare skin is visible) and Faramir stares directly at her, his face set as though she is issuing him a challenge. She pulls the parchment out and hands it to Faramir. “It matches the pin.” 

He nods, but says nothing. 

“We must draw them out carefully. If he believes Rohan to be at least amenable to his goals, then he might try to cross the Anduin,” Aragorn says, staring into the fire. “A small force moving up the Harad Road combined with a push from the Rohirrim might allow us to trap him in the Emyn Muil.” 

“We must have evidence of a crime before we can mete out justice, simply having an emblem and making passes at other men’s wives is not punishable by law” says Faramir coolly, and Éowyn quirks her eyebrow at him, surprised at his comment. 

“No, we won’t be engaging them, but we will need to shock him into making mistakes,” Aragorn turns from the fire to look at his Steward. “Faramir, ride out to Amon Dîn before sunrise so as not to arouse any suspicion. Rejoin Lady Éowyn’s guard along the Great West Road when they arrive, negotiate as you see fit with Éomer King to allow for a Gondorian presence in the Eastemnet. In one week’s time I will send a reinforcement garrison to Cair Andros, in two weeks’ time they will arrive at the Emyn Muil. Let us hope that Lady Éowyn’s instincts are correct.” He stands. “For my part, I have left my pregnant wife for too long and should like to return to her with great haste."

He leaves, and she stares angrily at the fire. Her breathing has settled, but her mind has not, and she is so angry, so frustrated, so aggrieved at once again feeling like she is trapped by her gender, that the images of stress that flicker through her mind are not of death and desolation, but of her striking forward and obliterating the Black Captain, of the feeling of unadulterated victory and liberation that had flooded through her veins before she had collapsed. 

“I need clothes,” she commands. 

#### ≿————- ❈ ————-≾

Éowyn is tall for a woman of Rohan, but even then, she is significantly shorter than Faramir, and his clothes hang off her comically. Still, she doesn’t care, her mind is still aflame and she needs to be someone, _anyone_ else for a few hours. She finishes tying up her braid as she descends the stairs, saying nothing to Faramir and Erchirion as she slips on her mantle. 

Erchirion leads them further and further down the circles — each with their hoods raised — until they arrive outside a tavern that he swears deals in considerable discretion. She doubts that they will remain totally unsuspected, she with her golden hair marking her a daughter of Rohan, and Faramir and Erchirion with their overt Númenórean heritage, but her blood is so hot she’s not sure she cares. 

They slide into a darkened booth in the corner of the tavern, three of at least forty patrons, and Erchirion immediately makes for the bar. Éowyn quietly seethes, but says nothing to Faramir who, to his immense credit, simply takes her hand, running his thumb across her knuckles. When the Belfalan princeling returns with two tankards and a glass of deep red wine (she knows exactly who it’s for, but it doesn’t stop her raising her eyebrow at it anyways), he launches into stories about his bawdiest escapades here. Faramir wears a long-suffering expression well, though even he condescends to laugh occasionally. 

Their cups are drained within half of a candlemark, and Éowyn offers herself up for the next trip to the bar. Faramir furnishes her with several coins under the table to save her pride, and she cuts across the room, nose in the air. The bar is crowded, and she nestles against where it meets the wall to wait for the bartender’s attention. The clientele here are an obvious mix of well-heeled merchants and minor aristocrats, and craftsmen and soldiers who’ve made the effort to appear well-heeled, even if there’s still a roughness around their edges. It’s an unholy mixing of classes, and she suspects that is why it trades in discredition, the only people here who would gain from being here would suffer for exposing their betters. 

She watches as a man approaches the bar, staring her down like she’s his destination. She turns back to concentrate on the bartender, supremely uninterested in having to deal with any men except the ones she chooses. Nevertheless, the man pushes his way into the horizontal queue next to her, cheating out to look her up and down. She keeps her eyes focussed on the wine bottles on the shelf at the back bar. 

“Strange to see a woman here,” he tells her, and she raises her eyebrows, nodding but not looking at him. 

He tries again, “You a foreigner?”

“No,” she says in Rohirric. He laughs, she frowns, eyeing up the bartender. 

He steps closer to her. “I’ve heard tales of the woman of the Mark,” he says, and looks to her for a response.

“I have no doubt that you have,” she says. “But I have no interest in your company, so will not ask you to elaborate.” He moves closer to her, and she presses her back against the wall, rolling her shoulders backwards.

“As an outsider you might not be aware that I am a very important man, and you might benefit for making my acquaintance.” He’s taller than her, but only just, and though his eyes are the grey of Númenór, his hair is ruddy brown, not black, cropped short beneath his chin. He may be high born, but not high enough that she yet knows him. 

“I expect that I will make my way fine on my own,” she says, looking once more to barkeep. 

“Ah, but Minas Tirith is a very complex city, particularly in the evenings. There is no shame in asking for help, which you must surely need because you have wandered into an environment that is entirely inhospitable to the fairer sex.” He reaches up, putting his hand on the wall above her head.

In her mind’s eye, she sees herself ripping his arm from the wall. She sees herself twisting it behind his back, forcing him to his knees before her until he regrets having ever laid eyes on her. But she is the future wife of the King’s Steward, soon to be the Lady of Ithilien. Her actions have consequences, can reflect poorly on the people she loves. She sighs bitterly.

“I have made my way here just fine,” she tells him, then pauses to give her order to the barkeep. “I do not anticipate any future problems.” The barkeep slides the tankards and glass on the bar top, and she hands him the coins. The man, evidently not yet sufficiently rebuffed, follows her as she returns to the table, pleading his case as she walks. At the table, she angrily drops the drinks to the table, then turns to face the man, folding her arms across her chest.

“Sir, I have made myself abundantly clear, I am in need of no man’s aid.” He stares at her, then looks over her shoulder, and realisation flashes across his face. 

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Oh,” she repeats mockingly, turning back to her companions.

“Forgive me, my Lord Steward, I had not realised —,” she wheels back to look at him, ready to yell, but Faramir’s cool baritone rings out first:

“It is not to me that you owe your apology.” 

The man has the good sense to look something close to nauseated. He stumbles through an apology, and Éowyn sends him scurrying away.

As she sinks further and further into her cups, she thinks bitterly that Dernhelm would not have to suffer such slights in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay here's my take: boromir and théodred — absolutely banged; faramir and éowyn— definitely switch hitters. lothíriel knows all of this because she is the most emotionally competent twenty year old ever, imo.
> 
> also if you're wondering how i got "erich" from "erchirion" it's because i'm horrifyingly dyslexic and really thought his name was "erichirion" for, like, years. now he's just permanently erich because i think it's sweet


End file.
